


Wolf White, Wolf Night

by galaxyartist4



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Albinism, Alcohol, Blood, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Companions Questline, Dovahzul, M/M, Moving Tattoo(s), Muteness, Nudity, Piercings, Scars, Sign Language, Slow Burn, Torture, Trauma, Violence, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2018-10-24 20:09:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 44,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10748928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxyartist4/pseuds/galaxyartist4
Summary: Comfortable life in Jorrvaskr is turned upside down by a tall stranger in prisoner's clothes. The stranger seems quiet enough, but he is definitely hiding something dangerous. Rorin may find out what it is whether he wants to or not.There will be spoilers!Mostly follows the Companions Quest line, but will split off at some point.There will be peeks into the crazy life of my Dragonborn and other OCs throughout.If you like it, leave comments and kudos please!There will probably will be a lot of time (or no time) between updates, but stay tuned...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dovahzul will be in this story periodically, I will leave translations in the end notes.
> 
> I will also be changing and embellishing stuff, so I am not going to stick entirely to the canon lore.

            Ebony metal shone in Rorin’s hands as he ran a cloth up and down the sharp length. The dagger felt warm and battle-ready under his fingertips. He lifted the weapon up to his eyes and his reflection stared back at him from the dark blade, ghostly pale in the torchlight. Soft humming echoed down the hallway, no doubt from one of the new bloods in the rooms down the hall.

            Polishing weapons was part of Rorin’s morning routine, and he took pride in the mirror-bright surfaces he was able to maintain. When he was a child, his father had taught him how to properly care for a blade, and he had practiced and practiced until the movements became natural. A smile crooked the corners of his mouth as he thought about his father. The man had been larger than life, and full of vitality, always laughing and telling stories. Rorin had admired his father more than anyone else, since his father had also been snow-born.

 

            _“Look boy,” the deep voice rumbled, “You and I are exactly alike... we are both strong, and brave, and kind.” Rorin pulled himself onto his father’s knee, laughing._

_“Papa, we both look the same too, like we’re made of snow!” Huge, white, battle-scarred hands found small, smooth ones and squeezed gently._

_“That’s true, youngling, we are both snow-born, a trait passed from father to son, from my father to me and from me to you.” The big man tickled his son and the boy squealed, wriggling away. “Those aren’t the only ways we’re alike, though… we can both take care of our weapons better than anyone else can!” He lifted Rorin off his knee and set him down. “Now bring me your dagger, and if I find one spot of rust, I’ll make you polish it all over again!”_

 

            Rorin’s fingers had barely touched his sword when Vilkas’ voice floated through the open door.

            “But I can still hear the blood calling to me.” His rough voice grated slightly against Rorin’s ears, and Rorin shook his head in irritation. The man always had rubbed him the wrong way, but he had tried to put aside their differences for the sake of their companionship.

            “We all do,” was the deep reply. “It is our burden to bear, but we can overcome.” Kodlak sounded distant, and Vilkas’ response was quiet and respectful.

            “You have my brother and I, obviously, but I don’t know if the rest will go along quite so easily.”

            “Leave that to me.”

            As Rorin listened, the scent of a stranger reached his nose. He inhaled warily. The newcomer smelled like the battlefield and something more dangerous, and Rorin felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, his blood stirring. He stood, setting his sword down, and walked quietly to the door, then he paused, ears straining. The only sound he could hear was the soft shift of cloth.

 

            _What’s going on out there?_

           

            He moved slightly, and chanced a look out into the hallway. The only thing he could see was Vilkas and Kodlak sitting together, staring intently at a pair of ebony-colored hands that were moving in patterns. The fingers were long and spidery, and covered in thin, pale scars. After a moment, he recognized a common sign language by the swift finger movements. Then the silence was broken by Kodlak’s voice.

            “Mute? I understand... Would you now? Here, let me have a look at you. Hm. Yes, perhaps... A certain strength of spirit.” Vilkas cut in abruptly, sounding angry.

            “Master, you’re not truly considering accepting him?” Kodlak’s answer had a hint of sharpness to it.

            “I am nobody’s master, Vilkas. And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts.”

            “Apologies. But perhaps this isn’t the time. I’ve never even heard of this outsider.” Rorin detected the poorly concealed scorn in Vilkas’ voice. Kodlak responded slowly.

            “Sometimes the famous come to us. Sometimes men and women come to us to seek their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their heart.”

            “And their arm.” Rorin grinned at Vilkas’ mutter.

            “Of course. How are you in a battle, boy?” Kodlak asked. A flurry of movement followed, but from where he stood, Rorin couldn’t read what the stranger was saying.

            “That may be so. This is Vilkas. He will test your arm.” Kodlak turned to the other man. “Vilkas, take him out to the yard and see what he can do.” Cloth shifted. Vilkas got to his feet, muttering,

            “Not here, whelp, out in the yard.” He stalked out of view, and Rorin heard his boots stomp down the hallway and up the stairs.

            As soon as he was positive that the two had left, he walked out to where Kodlak was still sitting. The old man sat straight in his chair, long gray hair spilling over his shoulders, expression unfathomable.

            “Rorin, what do you think of this newcomer?” The young man met Kodlak’s eyes with his own, and felt a twinge of apprehension. It took him a moment to answer.

            “He smells like blood, and silver… and smoke.” Kodlak nodded, and stared down the hallway. Rorin paused, considering the situation. A waft of air that swirled by brought the faint scent of fire and old blood to Rorin and made the decision for him.

            “I’m going to go see how things are progressing outside,” he said, and went back into his room to get his dagger.

          

            When Rorin pushed the back door open, Vilkas and the stranger had stepped back from each other. Vilkas was sweating and looking deeply impressed, but Rorin could tell that he was also uneasy. His brow was creased as he stared at the taller man, lines of worry spreading from his eyes. Rorin looked too, and raised his eyebrows, surprised by the stranger’s attire.

            Instead of any sort of protective armor, the Redguard man wore a beaten set of clothes that looked like the standard outfit for prisoners. The cloth was stained with what appeared to be blood and dust, and it was torn in several places. Several inches of dark skin showed under the cuffs of the pants, and even from where he was standing, Rorin could tell that the man was unusually tall.

            The morning sun shone off ebony colored skin and gold hoop earrings as the stranger sheathed two curved swords over his back. Rorin blinked and rubbed his eyes.

          

            _Curved swords? Where could he have gotten those?_

 

            From the back, Rorin could see the man’s head was shaved so close that he looked almost bald. Thick bands of muscle wrapped around the man’s arms and over his shoulders.

            The stranger turned. A blazing white streak was painted down over the man’s forehead and nose, contrasting boldly with his ebony skin. Another streak ran over the man’s lower lip and chin, and dots of the paint spread from his eyes.

 

            _By the Nine..._

 

            The stranger’s eyes were thin and almond shaped, but it was their color that made them so unsettling. His eyes were a bright, shining silver, and his irises looked like flat, glittering disks in his dark face. Rorin blinked and looked down, uncomfortable with holding that strange gaze for more than a moment.

            Thin, pale scars spread over the stranger’s left cheek, and a large, shiny scar marred one of the man’s impressive biceps. Rorin winced; the scar looked like it was caused by a burn. Other marks puckered the skin of his arms and legs. His hands were covered in thin knife scars that shone white against his skin. This strange Redguard had obviously seen his fair share of fights, and then some.

 

            After wandering around in the wilderness for many days, K’avir felt a little twitchy. He didn’t want to give these already suspicious men more reasons to be wary of him, so when he heard the door open, he deliberately sheathed his scimitars before turning around.

            The Nord man standing in the doorway was paler than anyone he had ever seen before. His skin was so white that it almost shone in the shadow of the porch. A pale blue vein was barely visible under the translucent, alabaster skin of his neck. The hair pulled into a messy bun at the back of the man’s head was also white, with the faintest hint of blond. A white beard framed the man’s mouth, and his pearly eyebrows were set in a dubious frown.

            He must be snow-born, K’avir thought. The stories were not wide-spread, but he had heard a few tales of men who looked as if they had been born from the very snow itself.

            K’avir watched the man’s gaze roam over his face before meeting his stare, and pale red eyes widened as surprise flitted across the man’s features. The gaze dropped to take in the scars on his exposed skin, and he saw the man wince. A fizz of irritation bubbled in K’avir’s blood; the pink strips on his skin were a reminder of his past, not something to be pitied.

           

            Rorin tore his eyes away from the stranger and looked toward Vilkas, meeting the other man’s steely gray gaze. Vilkas shrugged. He turned and spoke to the stranger briefly, then handed over his sword.

            “Take care, whelp, that’s probably worth more than you are.” He said, and walked over to Rorin. They both turned to watch the tall man walk up the steps toward the sky forge.

            “I’ve never seen anything like him,” Vilkas growled. “He’s too tall, he smells dangerous, like silver… and his eyes...” The man shuddered. “They’re unnatural, and that’s coming from me.” Vilkas shot a crooked, sideways grin at Rorin. Rorin nodded and grinned a little, briefly forgetting his animosity toward the other man.

            “He is strong, though,” Vilkas continued, and he shifted uneasily. “It felt almost as though he was holding himself back. He was too controlled.” Vilkas ran a hand through his dark hair, visibly upset.

            The stranger reappeared, holding a shield, and walked down the stairs. He moved with an odd, cat-like grace that didn’t quite fit his broad frame. Rorin saw that he wasn’t wearing any boots; the man's feet were bare and covered in dust. Rorin grunted, confused as to why anyone would want to roam Skyrim without footwear. His own feet ached at the thought.

            The Redguard walked toward them, and Rorin met the bizarre eyes again. The flatness of his gaze was unnerving. Acting on a whim, Rorin put out a hand as the man made to pass, and the stranger stopped. He was almost a head taller than Rorin, and the smaller man had to look up to meet his gaze properly. He paused for a moment, then clumsily signed a question to the stranger.

            _‘What is your name?’_  Surprise flitted across the man’s face before he responded, scar-covered fingers moving with ease.

            _‘K’avir. You don’t need to sign to me, I can hear perfectly well.’_

            Rorin scowled and dropped his hands to his belt.

            “I figured it was more respectful,” he said, trying to keep the growl from his voice. K’avir raised a single eyebrow, fingers dancing in the air.

            _‘No offense meant. Yes, it is technically more respectful, but I prefer to be spoken to, as my hearing is still intact, and it’s faster.’_ Vilkas snorted and walked away.

            Rorin watched him leave for a moment, then turned back to K’avir, concealing a grimace.

            _‘What’s your name then?’_ K’avir signed.

            “Rorin Snow-Born.” K’avir’s mouth twitched. He nodded, and stared down at Rorin for another minute, then proceeded into Jorrvaskr, still holding the shield.

           

            The next day, Rorin saw K’avir and Farkas leaving Jorrvaskr. Farkas was suited in proper companion armor and armed to the teeth, but K’avir was wearing the same dirty prisoner's clothes, two curved swords strapped to his back. Rorin was walking back from speaking to the Jarl’s steward, deep in thought, and he was making his way up the steps when the door opened and the two men stepped out. As he passed them by he met K’avir’s eyes for a moment, and an involuntary shudder ran down his spine. Something was different about the man’s gaze, something he couldn’t place. Rorin rubbed his arms and stared after the two men, unnerved.

 

            _Brand-Shei and Grelka watched with a mixture of amusement and amazement as a strange, barefoot Redguard man dressed in filthy prisoner's clothes crouched on top of the well in the middle of the marketplace, staring down at a russet-haired man wearing fancy clothes. Brynjolf was trying to recruit the stranger into one of his crazy schemes and the man seemed entirely disinterested. He was just staring at the other man, apparently not even listening. The interaction was drawing the attention of everyone in the marketplace, and Brynjolf had begun to turn red with frustration._

_Standing suddenly, the stranger turned his head toward the city gates, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. A faint roar echoed through the marketplace. Brynjolf gave up and stomped back to his booth._

_The Redguard took an effortless flying leap off the well, sailing over Snilf’s head, and a moment later his bare feet made a loud smacking noise as he landed quite a distance past Marise Aravel. The Dunmer woman turned to stare after him, shocked, as he ran through the gates and out of the city._

 

            The next time Rorin saw the Redguard, a week had gone by. He was stomping up the stairs to the main hall when he heard Farkas’ voice.

            “I hope you’ve readied yourself.” The answer was a soft shift of cloth.

            “So I’m told. Let’s see if you impress.” Rorin reached the top of the stairs and saw Farkas and K’avir standing together. Both men turned at the sound of his footsteps.

            “Rorin,” Farkas called. Rorin walked over, and nodded to the other man.

            “Kodlak wants you to come with us to Dustman’s Cairn for this one’s trial.” Farkas jerked his head toward K’avir. The Redguard man looked unfazed, still barefoot and wearing his prison clothes, swords strapped to his back.

            _‘I’ll meet you there,’_ K’avir signed, and walked out the door. Farkas stared after him.

            “No armor or anything...” he growled. “Does that Redguard whelp want to get himself killed?” There was a moment of silence while Rorin contemplated the words. Why did K’avir choose to fight without armor? That was practically a death sentence in Skyrim.

            “I’ll go get my things, meet you here in a few minutes,” Rorin muttered, and headed for the stairs again, still thinking about the newcomer’s bizarre behavior.

            Back in his room, he pulled on his boots, did up the leather ties on his companion’s armor, and pulled his hood over his face. Sheathing his ebony sword and war axe, he returned to the main hall where Farkas was waiting.

            “Ready, Shield-Brother?” He asked, steely eyes alight with anticipation. Rorin let out a low growl in response, and they pushed the front doors open.


	2. Chapter 2

            A while later, they arrived at Dustman’s Cairn, panting slightly. Rorin resisted the urge to smack Farkas upside the head for letting his tongue stick out of the corner of his mouth while they ran. They stopped right before the drop, looking around. The sunlight drove tiny needles of pain through Rorin’s eyes, but he focused on the rush of his blood instead, excited by the prospect of a fight.

            “K’avir,” Farkas called softly. A low whistle from down in the Cairn was their answer. The Redguard was standing next to the ancient door, looking almost bored. His tunic was splattered with fresh blood, though none of it seemed to be his, and as they walked down the stairs, Rorin could smell that the blood was from a sabre cat. He made no comment, but waited as K’avir pushed open the ancient door and slipped inside. He and Farkas followed quietly.

            “Looks like someone’s been digging here, and recently. Tread lightly,” Farkas warned. K’avir nodded, silver eyes practically glowing in the dim light. Rorin pulled his hood off and made sure his hair was tied back properly. The whole place stank of death. As he lowered his hands, he caught K’avir’s gaze for a moment, and felt the hair on his neck stand straight on end. The man’s eyes were wide with what seemed to be excitement, and his pupils had elongated into serpent-like slits, making his face look almost inhuman. K’avir broke the eye contact and unsheathed his swords. Rorin shivered, but he and Farkas followed suit.

            The three men descended the stairs into the first room, quiet footsteps echoing slightly against the dusty walls. A stone table sat in the middle of the room, illuminated by the coals from a brazier that had been tipped over. K’avir walked confidently into the room without looking around and crouched to pick the lock on an old chest to the left of the table. After a moment, Rorin heard a click, and K’avir lifted the lid, taking a bag of gold and a pair of fur gauntlets from the inside. He pocketed the items and stood.

            A dull thump sounded as Farkas kicked over one of the draugr lying on the floor.

            “These are definitely dead,” he grunted, looking at the lifeless corpses, “But there’s bound to be more that are a bit more… lively.” He turned to K’avir. “Be careful around the burial stones ahead, I don’t want to be hauling you back to Jorrvaskr on my back.” K’avir smirked, teeth glimmering in the flickering torchlight, and he cracked his neck. Rorin snorted at the man’s cockiness, then turned as a cold draft blew in from the end of the room. The hall turned out of sight just beyond the opening, but Rorin could smell dust, silver, and the musty scent of death. K’avir headed toward the hallway, swords at the ready, and the other two men lingered behind him.

            “Can you smell the silver?” Rorin growled to Farkas. The other man paused to spit before answering.

            “Yeah, I do. They’re here somewhere. Just be prepared.” Rorin nodded. They climbed down the stairs and turned a corner to see K’avir standing in a doorway, still as a stone. A sudden rushing sound poured through the hallways, emanating from the tall man. For a fraction of a second, Rorin thought he saw darkness spread out in front of the Redguard, then he noticed three spots on the wall glowing with a red aura. The light faded, and K’avir strode purposefully into the burial room, kicking loudly at a mummified corpse on the ground. Almost immediately, clicking and grunting issued from all around the burial rooms. Shuffling sounds told them that draugr were moving in their direction. Rorin tried to move forward, but Farkas grabbed his arm and held him back.

            “Let’s see how the whelp performs,” he muttered, an excited glint in his steel gray eyes. Rorin turned to look through the doorway. The shuffling sounds grew louder, and K’avir turned to his right. With a silent snarl on his face, he leaped forward and out of sight. Brief clashing sounds followed. A moment later, he ran back past the doorway and out of sight again. Decayed vocal chords let out an awful, grating screech then were swiftly silenced. K’avir jumped back into view and slashed violently at the last oncoming draugr. The creature blocked him and retaliated, hissing in fury. K’avir hissed in response and punched the hilt of his scimitar into the draugr’s face. The creature fell back, dropping its battle axe, and K’avir’s sword sliced through the dead flesh of its neck. Rorin watched the headless corpse drop to the ground, raising a small cloud of dust at K’avir’s feet. The Redguard turned, wiping his swords on his pants.

            _‘Thanks for the help,’_ he signed, one eyebrow raised. Farkas shrugged.

            “Eh, you didn’t even need us,” Rorin said, walking through the doorway to survey the damage. “Let’s keep moving though.”

            They proceeded further into the dungeon, fighting draugr as they appeared. K’avir was extremely skilled with his curved swords, killing the undead creatures with apparent ease. Rorin and Farkas trailed in his wake, finishing off anything that he left alive.

            Eventually they reached what seemed like a dead end.

            “Spread out and look for a switch or a lever or something,” Farkas commanded. “There’s gotta be one here somewhere.”

            They spread out. Rorin went to investigate a suspicious looking pattern on the wall while the other two moved away from him toward the other end of the room. Turning away from the stones, Rorin saw K’avir walk into a small alcove in the wall, intent on something he couldn’t see. A second later, a metal gate rattled down, effectively trapping the Redguard. Snorting with amusement, Rorin and Farkas walked over to the trapped man. For someone with no escape, K’avir looked remarkably calm. Rorin thought he saw the man slip a finger through the solid metal, but he blinked and the illusion was gone.

            “Now look what you’ve gotten yourself into,” Farkas chuckled. “No worries, just sit tight. I’ll find a release.” Instantly, Rorin suddenly heard a clanking sound and stiffened, turning toward the door that had opened in the wall.

            “What was that?” Farkas said, drawing his sword.

            Fifteen men spilled into the room, reeking of silver, and quickly surrounded Farkas and Rorin, who backed up against each other, identical snarls on their faces.

            “Well, well, well, look at what we have here,” one of the men said, pointing his silver sword at Farkas’ throat, “A pair of mutts.” The other men guffawed. “Killing you will make for an excellent story,” the first man hissed mockingly.

            “None of you will be alive to tell it,” Farkas growled. He nodded to Rorin, and Rorin grunted in response. Both men dropped their weapons, then suddenly the sound of snapping tendons and tearing muscles filled the room.

            The pain was abrupt and agonizingly strong. Rorin snarled as he felt his body contort violently. His armor disappeared as an itchy prickling told him that thick hair was sprouting all over his body. He shuddered painfully. He could feel his face elongating, razor sharp teeth bursting from his gums. His vision widened and he snuffled, twitching a pointed ear as he briefly adjusted to the new smells and sounds. Massive claws grew from each of his fingers and toes, and he felt sharp tug as a tail erupted from the base of his spine.

            Two huge werewolves, one white and one gray, howled in unison, then turned on the men, who scrambled to attack. The fight was short and extremely bloody, carnage flying through the air. K’avir watched with interest as the white werewolf grabbed a man, ripping him wide open before dropping him and swiping finger-length claws through the neck of another. Blood spurted thickly onto the stones. The gray werewolf snapped its jaws around another man’s midriff and shook him like an oversized dog with a toy. The man dropped to the floor, neck lying at a disturbing angle. After a couple minutes passed, the fifteen men lay in pieces, strewn across the floor. The gray werewolf growled and loped off down the tunnel. The white one turned and took a couple steps toward the trapped man.

            K’avir looked into the deep-set red eyes and hummed to himself. In contrast to its bloody teeth and face, the werewolf’s eyes seemed to be anxious, almost apologetic.

 

            _This explains why Jorrvaskr smells like dogs, when not one dog lives in the building._

 

            The trapped man pressed his hand against one of the bars, feeling the metal give slightly. He stuck a finger through the solid iron again, feeling the strange prickle on his skin, still humming. The white werewolf snorted and took a step back, eyes wide.

            Blood glistened on white fur as the werewolf Rorin shifted uneasily, ivory claws scratching against the stone floor.

            _“Grohiik mun,”_ K’avir whispered, staring into the pale red eyes. The werewolf cocked its head, then took a hasty step back as the gate trapping K’avir slid up into the ceiling. For a second, K’avir and the werewolf stood, staring at each other, then Farkas ran into the room, fully human again.

            “I hope we didn’t scare you,” he said, gesturing to Rorin, who was still staring at K’avir, blood dripping from his muzzle. One white ear twitched forward, the other stayed back. He spat a lone finger onto the ground.

            _‘Not at all,’_ K’avir signed as Farkas picked up his sword. _‘Who were those men?’_

            “The Silver Hand,” Farkas replied irritably. “An organization dedicated to hunting those of us with the beastblood.”

            _‘Okay. What now?’_

            “We should keep moving, there’s still the draugr to worry about, and more of the Silver Hand. They must’ve known we were coming.” K’avir nodded, then looked at the white werewolf.

            Rorin stiffened and let out a low whine, his body contracting. The thick hair disappeared, claws and snout retracted, and armor reappeared. A moment later, he spat on the ground, then picked up his weapons and straightened, wiping his mouth. He shot a very suspicious look at K’avir before muttering that he would follow behind the other two.

            Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and walls as the men made their way into the crypt. Both the draugr and the Silver Hand were more abundant the deeper they went. Rorin watched carefully as K’avir fought. The man’s face was lit with a ferocious grin as he slashed at his enemies, undead and human alike, and although his foes did land an occasional blow on him, he didn’t seem to feel them.

            Countless enemies and a couple of locked doors later, they reached the final room.

            “The fragment,” Farkas hissed. K’avir stepped forward and lifted a piece of metal off a plinth.

            Lids burst from several coffins around the room with an explosion of dust. Farkas and Rorin both swore. Draugr stepped from each of the coffins, and the three men found themselves battling an onslaught of the undead. As Rorin slashed dried flesh with his sword, he could hear some sort of chanting. Distracted, he dodged an oncoming blade too slowly and felt the tip of the weapon slice through the skin of his left forearm. Swearing, he swung his sword up and caught the draugr in the chest. The creature collapsed at his feet.

            After several minutes of furious combat, the last draugr was lying on the floor, smelling strongly of dust and death. Rorin kicked one over and picked up the septims that fell out of its pockets.

            “I’ll meet you both at the entrance, that chanting sound is making me nervous,” Farkas called, and disappeared through a hidden opening behind a coffin.

            Suddenly, the volume of the chanting increased. Rorin turned and saw K’avir walking toward a thick, curved wall as if in a trance. Ancient writing was carved into the worn stone, and one word seemed to be glowing. K’avir stepped toward the wall, eyes fixed on the glowing letters, and Rorin watched in amazement as pale blue light reached out to surrounded the Redguard, illuminating the room and casting looming shadows on the walls. When the light faded, K’avir turned to Rorin.

            The taller man’s silver eyes had a crazed look about them, slit pupils needle-thin. He pulled back his lips and let out a guttural snarl, and Rorin froze where he stood, icy fear running down his spine. He didn’t understand what was happening. Had K’avir gone mad?

            As K’avir opened his mouth, liquid fire began to flow over his suddenly pointed teeth and down his chin, sizzling as it hit the floor.

            _“Bovul, mey!”_ K’avir yelled, throwing himself forward and shoving Rorin out of his way. _“YOL!”_

            Rorin watched, almost in slow motion, as a billow of flame streamed from K’avir’s lips, engulfing the oncoming draugr. The undead creature fell to the ground as a pile of ash.

            K’avir turned to where Rorin was sprawled on the ground. He spat out a glob of liquid fire, then picked his way through the corpses and held out a dark, scar covered hand to the smaller man. Rorin pushed himself shakily away from the offered hand. As he looked up, he saw, to his horror, that the skin around K’avir’s eyes had peeled away slightly, leaving something glittering underneath. K’avir raised his hands to his face, touching the silvery scales that were just barely visible at the corners of his eyes. He shook his head and offered the hand to Rorin again, who looked up into K’avir’s face once more. The skin was growing back over the silver scales, and K’avir’s pupils had returned to normal. Rorin hesitated, but decided to accept the offer, letting the bigger man pull him to his feet.

            “So, you’re not mute.” Rorin said flatly. K’avir shook his head. “Why don’t you speak then?” K’avir sighed deeply and scratched the back of his neck.

            _‘I haven’t learned how to speak proper common yet, and my mother tongue can be dangerous,’_ he signed.

            “I’ll say,” Rorin muttered, staring at the pile of ash a few feet from them. “So, you can understand common?” He asked, turning back to the other man. K’avir nodded. “But you can’t speak it?” K’avir shook his head, gold earrings swinging.

            “Strange, but not as strange as that fire. How did you learn to project a Thu’um?” K’avir shook his head again and signed, _‘It’s a long story.’_

            “You’ll have to tell me some time, it sounds like quite the tale.”

            Rorin swayed abruptly, and looked down at his arm. Crimson liquid was pouring from the cut in his forearm and dripping from his fingertips onto the floor.

            “Ysmir’s beard,” Rorin whispered, trying to stem the bleeding with his other hand. His head was beginning to spin. Suddenly he felt the sting of several other cuts that he hadn’t felt during the fighting, and he couldn’t believe that he hadn’t noticed them before.

            Just as he was cursing himself for being slow and inattentive, dark, scar-covered fingers entered his range of vision, coated in glittering light. They hesitated for a moment, and as Rorin made no move to stop them, they rested on the cut in his arm. K’avir’s skin was extremely warm, and Rorin jerked in surprise under the touch. The fingers pulled back, but the healing spell had already worked. The pain was subsiding and the bleeding had stopped.

            Rorin looked at the other man in surprise.

            “Thanks. I, uh, didn’t think that you were the type to practice restoration magic,” he said, trying not to sound rude.

            _‘It comes in handy sometimes,’_ K’avir responded, fingers moving deftly through the air. _‘Now let’s get out of here. We have what we came for.’_ Rorin started to move but K’avir stopped him.

            _‘Please don’t mention what happened here, I would like to avoid prying questions,’_ the man signed. Rorin nodded, and the two walked toward the exit.

 

            As they climbed the stairs out of the cairn, Rorin considered the man in front of him. K’avir had seen undead, werewolves, and carnage in the crypt that day, and he seemed completely undaunted. He had shown no signs of fear or even confusion when two men had turned into beasts before his eyes and ripped apart several other men. He had slain numerous draugr without sustaining any injuries. K’avir hadn’t even broken a sweat.

            Slit-pupiled silver eyes flashed in his vision, liquid fire dripped to the ground and hissed. Rorin blinked away the image and shuddered. K’avir hadn’t even seemed worried after flames had burst from his lips, born from a single word he had spoken.

            Suddenly, his memory echoed with words his father had once spoken.

            _“Soul of dragon, body of man. Dragonborn, they call him, and fierce and wild is he.”_

 

            When they reached the top of the stairs, K’avir loped away in the direction of Whiterun. Rorin watched him go. The Redguard ran with ease, long legs eating up the ground so quickly that he was out of sight before Rorin had time to blink twice.

           

            _He really could be the Dragonborn..._

 

            Any man who worked hard enough and for a long enough time could learn to project a Thu’um if he wanted to, but K’avir didn’t seem like a normal man. The glowing lights, the eerie indifference, the silver eyes... Rorin hadn’t heard of a new Dragonborn coming to Skyrim, but perhaps the news hadn’t spread yet.

            Farkas strolled up to Rorin, scowling.

            “You took a while getting out of there. What happened?”

            Fire flashed against Rorin’s vision again and he shook his head.

            “Another draugr appeared,” he murmured, staring out into the cloudless sky. “It took me by surprise, and the new blood, uh, well he destroyed it very efficiently.”

            Farkas raised his eyebrows but didn’t pry further.

            “Anyway, we should head back; his ceremony will start soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I realize that canonically, the members of the Circle have silver eyes while in human form, but I didn't know that when I started writing, so my Circle members have gray eyes.
> 
>  
> 
> Grohiik mun = wolf man  
> Bovul, mey = move, fool  
> Yol = fire (the first word of the Fire Breath shout)


	3. Chapter 3

            The sun was setting in the west, casting reddish-gold light across the training yard as Farkas and Rorin strode around the back of Jorrvaskr. The Companions were already gathered in a half circle with K’avir facing them, standing alone with his bare feet planted firmly on the stones. Kodlak nodded to the two men, then turned to K’avir again. 

            “Brothers and Sisters of the Circle, today we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold.” Rorin took his place, adjusting his hood so the sun wasn’t in his eyes. Kodlak continued to speak, looking into K’avir’s shadowed face.

            “This man has endured, has challenged, and has showed his valor. Who will speak for him?”

            The Companions turned as one to look at Farkas and Rorin. The two men shared a glance, then answered in unison.

            “We stand witness for the courage of the soul before us.” Kodlak looked into both of the men’s faces. 

            “Would you raise your shield in his defense?” 

            “We would stand at his back, that the world might never overtake us,” they responded, voices echoing across the training yard.

            “And would you raise your sword in his honor?” Rorin hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering. 

            “It stands ready to meet the blood of his foes.” K’avir’s silver eyes flashed sideways toward Rorin, face expressionless. Rorin looked away.

            “And would you raise a mug in his name?” Kodlak continued.

            “We would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall reveled in his stories.”

            “Then this judgment of this Circle is complete. His heart beats with fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, so the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call.”

            The training yard rumbled with the companions’ unified response. 

 

            “It shall be so.”

 

            The half circle broke apart, and Kodlak strode up to K’avir, expression serious.

            “Well, boy, you’re one of us now. I trust you won’t disappoint.” K’avir nodded, and signed something to the old man. Kodlak sighed.

            “I see you’ve been allowed to know some secrets before your appointed time. Yes, it’s true. Not every Companion, no, only members of the Circle all share the blood of the beast. Some take to it more than others.” The Redguard man paused briefly before signing again.

            “Well, I grow old,” Kodlak rubbed his eyes tiredly. “My mind turns towards the horizon, to Sovngarde. I worry that Shor won’t call an animal warrior as he would a true Nord warrior. Living as beasts draws our souls closer to the Daedric lord, Hircine. Some may prefer eternity in his hunting grounds, but I crave the fellowship of Sovngarde.” K’avir blinked slowly, fingers moving through the air. 

            “Yes, but finding a cure is no easy matter. But you don’t need to share the worries of an old warrior. This day is to rejoice in your bravery and speak to Eorlund for a better weapon than... whatever those are.” K’avir scowled slightly and put a protective hand to his scimitars. Rorin hid a grin under his hand and followed Farkas into Jorrvaskr. 

            In his room, Rorin undid his armor and laid the pieces on the floor. He tugged his boots off and set them by the door, then found his cleaning cloths and picked up his breastplate. Sitting down onto the bench in front of his bed, he began to clean his armor and think about the day’s events.

            As he scrubbed at a particularly stubborn spot of dried blood, he thought about K’avir. The man intrigued and frightened him. 

 

_If he’s the Dragonborn, what is he doing messing around here? Haven’t there been recent sightings of dragons?_

 

            Rorin stared unseeingly at the gauntlet in his hand, flames filling his eyes once more. The liquid fire dripping from K’avir’s mouth hadn’t hurt him at all, even though it had scorched the stones on the ground. 

            The scents of battle flooded his nose, as pungent as if he were still in the crypt. Dead flesh, silver, his and Farkas’ beast blood, the blood of the Silver Hand... Rorin nearly dropped the gauntlet. He hadn’t smelled the K’avir’s blood at all, not even once. They had all been covered in various kinds of gore when they left Dustman’s Cairn so it was hard to tell, but Rorin’s nose hadn’t detected any new scents on the man. He couldn’t believe that K’avir hadn’t been wounded at all; he had seen blows land on the man’s dark skin.  _But you didn’t see any blood,_  his mind whispered. Had the man activated some sort of armor spell before they entered the crypt? The spell wouldn’t have lasted that long, and he hadn’t seen or heard any signs of magic except for the single restoration spell. He rubbed his forearm thoughtfully. The spell had slowly but completely healed the wound without him noticing, knitting the muscles and skin together painlessly, barely leaving a scar. A scowl pulled at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t like having wounds, but he usually preferred to let small cuts heal themselves without magic. 

            After his armor was clean and polished, he took his weapons and made his way to the Skyforge. The sound of the grindstone met his ears as he opened the back door. Curious, he climbed the steps up to the forge.

            K’avir sat astride the grindstone, muscles bulging and stretching as he sharpened one of his curved swords. Something he had tempered them with had given them a dark luster and they shone in the fading light. Rorin took a seat on the top step. 

            A few beads of sweat ran down the Redguard’s forehead as sparks flew from the grindstone. His face was lit from below, making him look eerie in the fading sun. His earrings glinted, swinging with every movement.

            As Rorin watched K’avir work, he set his weapons down and inhaled apprehensively. Scents wafted toward him, drifting on the gentle breeze. He could smell the Skyforge, a mix of hot metals and fire. The aromas of Whiterun were ever-present, a myriad of human and animal smells with an undertone of musky dog. Grinning, Rorin inhaled again, and the breeze brought K’avir’s scent to him. Ignoring the notes of old blood, Rorin breathed deeply and picked the bouquet apart. Under the old blood, there was the smell of cloth, smoke, and silver, and under all those smells was something else. Rorin leaned forward slightly and the scents became stronger. He could barely detect the underlying scent.

 

_Spices… and flowers?_

 

            The aromas swiftly flooded his nose as a shadow fell across his eyelids. He scrambled for his weapons and sprang to his feet, eyes flying open, before he remembered where he was. K’avir stood near the foot of the steps, looking at him curiously. Rorin had been so focused on his nose that he hadn’t heard the grindstone stop. 

 _‘I’m finished,’_  K’avir signed. Rorin cast an appraising eye over the curved swords. They gleamed, razor sharp and deadly, the new color sinister in the growing darkness. Rorin blinked at him for a moment, baffled by the now strong scent of flowers seeming to emanate from the man’s dark skin, then nodded. He passed the taller man, intent upon the grindstone, and K’avir took his place on the steps. The Redguard reached into his pocket and pulled out a square stone which he spat on, then he began to sharpen the swords even more finely with quick precise strokes. His silver eyes followed Rorin to the grindstone as the Nord man sat down and began to take the biggest nicks out of his sword. 

            As Rorin focused on a particularly big nick in his blade, he heard a low humming sound vibrating underneath the noise of the grindstone. Slowing the grindstone, Rorin listened carefully, and he began to pick out words.

 _“Aarre se faal Drogsenir, nust los grohiik muz...”_  

            Rorin stopped the grindstone and turned. K’avir’s lips were moving slightly, the whispered song seeming to flow through the air around him. He moved a cloth gently over the sword in his hands, polishing away the last spots of dirt.

 _“...Nust ru wah fin tah, nust nir wah nid aaz, ahrk nust lovaas wah fin vulon.”_  Slowly, the man raised his silver eyes to meet Rorin’s stare, and Rorin felt a sudden and inexplicable force take over his body. 

            The force gripping Rorin’s being twisted sharply and he gasped, dropping his weapons and clutching at the grindstone. Pain shot through his limbs and into his mouth, where, to his surprise and horror, he could feel his teeth elongating. A growl tore from his throat as he fought the involuntary change, grappling madly with the wolf inside him. K’avir’s song had stopped, and he started forward, looking vaguely worried. Rorin jumped to his feet. 

            “Hit me!” He snarled, voice rough and gravelly. K’avir barely hesitated. A stinging slap across his face brought Rorin back to his senses a little bit, and he sucked in a labored breath, willing the changes to recede. The pain in his bones faded.

            “What was that?” Rorin growled around pointed teeth that were refusing to disappear. K’avir scratched his nose in an embarrassed way before answering. 

 _‘I forgot myself, I apologize,’_ he signed. For a moment, his eyes seemed to darken and turn into deep silvery pools. Moving hesitantly, he reached his fingers toward Rorin’s cheek, but Rorin stepped back, eyes wide, and K’avir quickly dropped his hand. The silver eyes flattened again, shining like coins in K’avir’s shadowy face.

            Fear trickling down his spine, Rorin took another step back, and looked up into the sky. Night had fallen, and the blue and violet Aurora danced around the full moons. Masser and Secunda hung low in the sky. Rorin felt his beast blood rising again, clamoring wildly for release.

            He met K’avir’s gaze once more, and cleared his throat, rubbing his stinging cheek. 

            “Please,” Rorin whispered desperately, his voice catching in his throat, “At least warn me next time.” K’avir nodded. Rorin spun around and took off at a run. Darkened streets flew past as he ran, trying to suppress the change until he left the city. He pushed the gates open and sprinted out into the darkness, over the bridge, past a Khajiit caravan, and into the wilds. 

            The change ripped through Rorin’s self as if it were the first time it had ever happened. He clutched his chest as a strangled moan fought its way between his sharpening teeth, his body contorting with excruciating pain. Colors bled and turned gray as his eyes sunk into his face, snout lengthening while thick fur sprouted all over his body. He dug his claws into the earth, reveling in the gritty sensation of the dirt under his feet. 

            Transformation complete, the white werewolf threw back its head and howled to the two moons, the sound echoing across the open fields. Three voices answered his call. He loped towards the chorus, finding three wolves waiting for him. Dropping to all fours, he exchanged sniffs with his brothers, and they raised their muzzles to the sky again. Voices joined together and harmonized, rising and falling in the moonlight. 

            Rorin ran with the wolves, feeling the blood coursing through his veins, obeying the call of the beast inside him. They took down a deer, feeding until their stomachs bulged, then wandered together, nipping each other and playing for hours.

 

 

 

            Rorin woke with a start, fully human, naked, and lying in a snoring pile of wolves. He yawned and stretched. The events of the previous night were a bit hazy in his memory, but he remembered eating a lot. Another pack had joined them as they roamed, sharing the kills and singing together, and half of that pack had stayed the night. One of the wolves raised its head blearily and let out a curious snort. 

 _“Where are we?”_ Rorin growled low in his throat. The wolf blinked at him, and looked around.

 _“Only a darkness’ gallop from the tall stones,”_ it answered.

            Rorin grunted, understanding ‘the tall stones’ as Whiterun, and the wolf lay back down. He stood up and stretched again, then looked down at himself, tracing the line of snowy hair that trailed down his stomach with a dirt covered finger. A set of scars on his side pulled uncomfortably as he stretched once more, and he rubbed a hand over them, lost in memories. After a moment, he yipped to the pack, and wandered toward the spring.

 

_It’s so beautiful out here..._

 

            A light breeze ruffled Rorin’s loose, cream-colored hair as he crouched and dipped his hands into the pool. Splashing water onto his face, he sighed and stepped into the lake, shivering as the cold met his skin. He scrubbed his body and tried to put his mind back together, shutting away the beast inside him. It didn’t want to go. Multiple times he got distracted and snapped at passing dragonflies, and he even caught himself growling at his reflection. Realizing that he needed to find a place to sit and meditate, Rorin dunked his head, scrubbed his hair, and got out of the pool.

            Water droplets flew in all directions as he shook himself, then he wandered back to the wolves. One whined a question to him and he responded soothingly before climbing up the hill and sitting cross legged on the overhanging lip of the rocky outcropping, then he closed his eyes and inhaled. 

            The early morning sun warmed his skin as the smells of the wild flooded his senses. The aroma of damp earth and grass mixed with wildflowers and the scent of the wolves beneath him. Breathing slowly, Rorin turned inward. 

 

            His fingers scrambled madly for purchase on thick white fur. Snarling filled his ears. Claws bit into him, cutting his skin to ribbons. Menacing teeth tore at his flesh, trying to rip him apart. He fought, wrestling with all his might as the white wolf howled for release. 

            After what felt like days, Rorin managed to grab the animal in a headlock and drag it to the ground. It struggled for a moment, then lay still. Mist gathered around the beast and it disappeared. It rematerialized, sitting across from him, red eyes staring into Rorin’s face. Rorin glared back, the alpha spirit in every fiber of his being. The wolf’s gaze met his own for a moment, then it looked away in submission. The wolf faded.

 

            Rorin opened his eyes, momentarily stunned by the brightness. He stretched, fully in control again, and stood up. The sun had risen quite a bit and it was starting to hurt his eyes. Loping down the hill, he saw that all but one of the wolves had left while he meditated. The one remaining was the leader of the first three he had met the previous night. Rorin dropped to one knee and snorted a hello. The wolf returned the greeting and stood. It had only wanted to warn him that a dangerous smelling man had wandered by during his meditation. Rorin asked what the man looked like. The animal wasn’t sure, but it knew the smell of old blood. Rorin thanked the wolf and wished it good hunting before standing once more. 

            He looked into the dip underneath the rocks as the wolf ran off, and found a human skeleton. It was freshly cleaned, probably by the wolves the night before. His stomach grumbled unhappily at the sight, and he tried to ignore the idea that he might’ve helped polish the bones. Looking around the site, Rorin found a fox fur and a short, relatively rusty sword. He clumsily tied the fox fur around his waist, lamenting the loss of his clothing as the fur tickled his skin. When the change was a bit controlled, the clothing or armor worn usually disappeared and reappeared afterwards, however, his change the night before had been so violent that his clothes were ripped apart. Scooping up the rusty sword, Rorin tested its edge and found it to be relatively sharp, then, sighing heavily, he turned towards the west, where he could just see Whiterun in the distance. 

            Rorin started to jog toward the city, legs protesting after his night of frolicking. He kept the rusty sword in his fist, senses alert for any danger even though the light from the sun sent daggers into his eyes. Skirting carefully around Bleakwind Basin, Rorin noticed that the giants who usually made their camp there had mysteriously vanished. He edged closer to the area, sniffing the air. Nothing smelled particularly out of the ordinary, but he thought he could detect a faint scent of silver. Scowling, he turned and continued toward Whiterun. Deciding that he didn’t want to be seen running through the streets wearing nothing but a fox skin, he made his way around the left of the city, sticking close to the towering walls. By the time Whitewatch tower came into view, darkness was falling. Rorin slowed to a walk, stopping briefly to stow the rusted sword behind a large boulder before continuing on.

            It seemed that the watchtower guards recognized him, either that, or they didn’t see him, since they made no move to try to stop him from entering the abandoned tower. Rorin clambered onto a barrel and pulled himself up over the ledge, onto solid stone. Wiping sweat from his face, he stood and walked into the tunnel that lead to the Underforge. 

            Rorin finally reached the cave, grumbling in annoyance after having smacked his forehead against a piece of rock protruding from a low part of the ceiling. He rubbed the tender spot, feeling a welt rising under his skin. The darkness pressed against his eyes, but he knew the cave like the back of his hand, so avoiding the basin in the center of the room, he walked to the back, and lay down on the floor. His body was exhausted from the violent change and the long night, so even the cold stones underneath him felt comfortable. He dozed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been and will be using www.thuum.org for my Dovazul, but according to the site it is no longer being maintained, and I am also not great with sentence structure and conjugations and stuff with Dovahzul. In short, these may not be perfect or entirely accurate.
> 
> Aarre se faal Drogsenir, nust los grohiik muz = Servants of the Lord of (the) Hunt (Hircine), they are wolf men
> 
> Nust ru wah fin tah, nust nir wah nid aaz, ahrk nust lovaas wah fin vulon = They run with the pack, they hunt with no mercy, and they sing to (with) the night


	4. Chapter 4

            The orange light of a torch woke Rorin from a restless sleep. He sat up quickly, nearly head-butting Farkas, who was leaning over him, looking concerned. 

            “Are you alright, Shield-Brother?” He asked, voice low. “You disappeared last night and no one knew where you’d gone. When you didn’t show up this morning we got a little worried. I was just passing by on my way to have a late night drink at the Bannered Mare when I caught your scent.” Rorin took the man’s offered hand and stood stiffly, groaning at the aches in his back and legs. 

            “I had one hell of a night,” Rorin said, a hint of dry amusement in his voice. “It took me a while to run back here.” Farkas looked at him, scrutinizing his face in the flickering light. 

            “Your clothes?” He asked shortly, leading Rorin to the rock door. 

            “Ripped to pieces during the change,” Rorin responded, tugging unhappily at the fox skin. Farkas raised his eyebrows. 

            “That’s not supposed to happen after the first change,” he grunted, steely gray eyes sharp. 

            “I know,” Rorin said as they pushed the rock aside and walked out into moonlight. Farkas shoved the rock door back into position and the two men headed toward Jorrvaskr, both absorbed in their own thoughts. 

            The warmth and light hit Rorin with an almost physical force, and he realized that he was freezing. As Farkas shut the door behind them, Rorin pushed his tired legs into a jog, headed for the stairs. He paused on the top step, and called over to Farkas. 

            “Still up for a drink?” The other man nodded vigorously, though he looked exhausted. “I’ll come with you, if you give me a minute to get dressed,” Rorin said, then grinned, and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

            When he reached his room, he dug in his drawers for a pair of trousers and a shirt. Rorin had lost track of what day it was, but he thought that it was around the 3rd of Hearthfire, and the night was chilly. Pulling a soft, reddish-brown cotton garment over his head, he sighed in contentment, feeling the warmth of the fabric. He untied the fox fur and folded it, putting it into his drawer, then found a clean loincloth and pulled it on. Trousers followed the loincloth, theirchestnut brown colormatching well with the red-brown of the shirt. The stone floor was cold under his knees as he got down to search for his leather boots. Yanking them on, he stood again and took a sweater made of silky, undyed wool from a hook on his door. Slipping his arms into the sleeves, he grabbed his weapon belt and ebony dagger before closing his door and climbing back up the stairs. 

            Farkas stood by the front doors, steely eyes half lidded with tiredness. Despite his droopy expression, he straightened eagerly as Rorin approached, and pushed the door open. 

The night air was cold on Rorin’s face. He inhaled gratefully, the darkness sparking his memory, and he suddenly remembered his dropped weapons. 

            “Wait,” he told Farkas, and ran up to the Skyforge. His sword and axe had been expertly sharpened and hung in the weapons rack next to the grindstone. Frowning slightly, he took the weapons from the rack and returned them to his belt, then ran down the stairs back to where Farkas was waiting.

 

            The Bannered Mare was cozy and warm, with quite a few patrons even for the late hour. 

            “What time is it anyway?” Rorin asked Farkas as they sat down at the bar. 

            “It’s near midnight,” Farkas answered, signaling to the barmaid that they wanted two ales. 

            “Actually, I’ll have wine, please,” Rorin told the girl as she passed by. Farkas chuckled and shoved him a little in his seat. 

            “You and your fancy tastes,” he said, amused. Rorin scoffed and shoved him back. 

            “I like ale and mead too, I just feel like wine tonight. I think it will sit better with my abused stomach.” Farkas looked at him with a curious, yet knowing expression. 

            “Did you goa little wild last night?” He asked, eyebrows knitting together. Rorin looked sideways at him, rubbing the back of his neck before answering. 

            “It felt like the first time, maybe even worse,” he whispered. Ivory white hands shook very slightly as he looked down into his palms. He traced the light pink scar that split his left palm in two, not meeting the other man’s eyes.

            “What even happened?” Farkas kept his voice to a low rumble, casting a testy eye toward the loud and obnoxious bard. “The moons were full last night, but we can usually hold back the change even when they call...” Rorin looked up at him, meeting steel gray eyes with his own. 

            “Will you keep this from the others if I tell you?” Rorin murmured, holding his gaze. The bigger man nodded, dirt-smeared face open and honest. Rorin paused and turned to the barmaid, who was sliding them their drinks. She had misunderstood the order, giving Farkas two tankards and Rorin a cup of wine. Purple marks hung under the girl’s eyes, her skin tinged with gray. Rorin beckoned her closer and pressed several septims into her cold palm. 

            “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” He asked her kindly. She seemed frightened, and didn’t reply. A different patron yelled for a drink, and the girl scuttled away.

            “Hulda,” Rorin called, and the Nord woman bustled over from across the room.

            “Hail Companion, what do you need?” She asked, friendly warmth in her face. 

            “Your barmaid looks a little unwell. Perhaps you should let her go for the night?” Rorin jerked his head toward the girl. The woman exhaled in affectionate irritation.

            “Serija, what have I told you about overworking yourself?” The woman scolded. The girl hung her head looking embarrassed, and mumbled something about needing the gold. The Nord woman huffed and pushed the girl toward the door. 

            “Don’t worry, you silly girl. I’ll pay you some extra for tonight but you can’t do your best if you’re falling over with exhaustion!” The door swung shut and Hulda returned to the bar. 

            “I’m sorry about that, she’s taken to working much too late recently.” Farkas waved the apology away. 

            “It’s fine, Hulda, but I hope you pay her decently,” Rorin said, fixing the woman with a sharp look. She threw up her hands in mock fury.

            “Of course I pay her! Are you telling me how to do my job?” 

Rorin smiled, sipping his wine. The liquid was fruity, with a hint of snowberries, and very nice. 

            “No, not at all, Hulda. I only worry for the child’s health.” Hulda smacked him gently on the back of the head as she walked back around the counter.

            “Your heart is too big for your lifestyle, boy,” she told him, smiling fondly. Farkas grunted in agreement as he finished his first pint. Hulda moved away. Rorin took another sip of his wine, savoring the taste slowly, then he turned to Farkas again and met the man’s eyes. 

            “So?” Farkas muttered, tired of waiting. Rorin shook his head. 

            “You can’t tell-” he began, but Farkas interrupted him. 

            “I swear, by Ysmir himself, that I won’t tell anyone.” 

            “Not even Vilkas,” Rorin said.

            “Not even Vilkas,” Farkas replied. Rorin swirled the deep red liquid in his cup for a moment, remembering his experience from the night before.

            “Where is K’avir?” He asked.

            “The Redguard?” Farkas sounded surprised. “He left earlier today. Said something about business in Falkreath.” Rorin nodded and cleared his throat. 

            “Well... He... K’avir isn’t mute,” he said huskily. Farkas’ eyebrows shot up his forehead. 

            “Not mute?” He growled. 

            “Don’t interrupt me you dolt,” Rorin said placidly. Farkas laughed and waved a calloused hand. 

            “I’m sorry, please continue.” 

            “Well, I found out in Dustman’s Cairn. He... he shouted... and fire just flew out of his mouth.” Rorin rubbed a shaky hand over his eyes, trying to rid his mind of the image of flames. “He told me afterwards that he can speak, just not common. I don’t know why. I didn’t recognize the language he used, but it’s nothing I’ve ever heard before, and he told me it can be dangerous.” Rorin paused to take a breath. 

            “Yesterday evening, I was up at the Skyforge sharpening my sword, and K’avir was there. He started to sing, and the words... Well, something in the words took hold of me, and it almost forced the change.” Farkas inhaled sharply, steely eyes wide. Rorin continued. “I managed to halt the change for a few minutes so I could get out of the city. I’m not sure how I managed to make it in time, but I did. It... was terrible.” Rorin shuddered before continuing, his voice softer than before. 

            “The pain was worse than I can remember it ever being. Like I was being ripped apart, piece by piece. Every hair that grew felt like a needle being stuck into my skin. My bones are still aching.” He sighed. 

            “When the change was finished, I ran with the wolves. It’s been years since I lost myself like that. I was a beast all night, I can barely remember what happened. I may or may not have eaten a bit of a dead hunter.” Farkas grimaced, wrapped up in the story, and gestured for Rorin to keep talking. 

            “I woke up this morning, fully human again, but my mind was still with the wolves. I had to wash and meditate for an hour before I could regain myself.” Rorin met Farkas’ gaze, expression serious. “I have no idea why it happened, but I’m sure it happened because of that song.” 

Farkas stared into the foam at the bottom of his tankard, lost in thought. 

            “I think that weirder things may have happened in the past,” he said slowly, “But really, this is a bit troubling. Granted,” he let out a dry chuckle, “We are men who carry the blood of the beast. Who are we to call anything weird?” Rorin finished his wine and sighed. 

            “That’s true, but still. I don’t want it to happen again. I’ll have to talk to him when he gets back.” Farkas sighed as well and pushed away from the bar, dropping some septims onto the counter. Rorin followed suit, and the two men left the building. 

 

 

 

_A single Imperial scout walked purposely down the road just above Falkreath, whistling tunelessly. He was focused on his mission. His nose itched and he scratched it, looking back and forth at the scene in front of him, other hand on the hilt of his sword. Birds chirped around him, and the warm sun beat on his armored back. He found himself imagining swimming in a clear lake, cool water soothing on his skin._

_A sudden, energetic whooping sound jarred him from his daydream and had him drawing his sword, frantically searching for the source of the noise. He looked up, just in time to see an unusually tall Redguard man in prisoner’s clothes jump from a tall peak above him. A startled shout left the soldier’s lips as the man fell, then landed on the road a few paces ahead of him with a very loud thump. A normal man would’ve been severely injured, maybe killed, by a fall from that height, but the stranger seemed completely unharmed. For a split second, the two men looked at each other, then the Redguard winked, and bounded across the road, over the set of cliffs above the city, and disappeared from sight._

_The soldier stood for a moment, stunned, before rubbing his eyes. Had he just imagined a man jumping from the cliffs? He strode forward and looked down at the two, foot-sized indents in the road. The Redguard’s feet had been bare. Shaking his head in awe and disgust, he kept walking. No one would believe the story, even if he swore that it was true._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you see spelling/grammar errors, overused words, or plot/other inconsistencies, please message me and let me know where/what they are. Thanks!

            Rorin sat in the bath, sleepily enjoying the warm water. He had been there for a little while, soaking after he scrubbed himself clean. Reaching lazily for the thick bar of soap, he stood and began to scrub himself again. Humming, he rubbed suds through his hair and beard, then reached blindly for the bucket of water beside the bath. As Rorin poured the water over his head and rinsed the soap from his hair, the door creaked open. He set the bucket down, and blinking water and bubbles from his eyes, he tried to identify the intruder. 

            “Who-” he started, then stopped as he met flat silver eyes. A flush ran over his skin, and he grabbed a towel from the table next to him, trying to cover himself quickly. 

            “Don’t you know you’re supposed to knock before barging into the washroom?” Rorin snapped, embarrassed. K’avir looked him up and down once before grinning. 

            “Whoops,” he murmured, voice husky and quiet. Rorin stared at him, unnerved, and K’avir backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Skin burning from the man’s lingering gaze, Rorin stepped out of the bath and toweled dry. 

 

            K’avir really hadn’t been thinking when he pushed the washroom door open and stepped inside. His mind had been occupied by his travels of the past few weeks. The rumors of dragons had followed him across Skyrim, from the east to the west, though no actual sightings had been reported. He could almost sense the malicious intent floating down from the highest peaks of some of the mountains he had passed by. Thoroughly distracted and itching to wash, it took him a moment to realize that someone was already in the bathtub. 

            Water cascaded over snowy white skin, droplets shining in the candlelight. The Nord man standing in the water seemed to be lit with an ethereal glow as he put the bucket he held down on the floor next to the tub. He straightened, and K’avir watched with fascination as sturdy muscles rippled under skin, a set of pink scars stretching over the man’s ribs. K’avir’s eyes followed the line of frosty white hair trailing down the alabaster stomach, then took in surprisingly muscled thighs and calves. 

            “Who-” The suspicion in the low voice caught him off guard, and he glanced up, meeting startled, pale red eyes. A delicate pink spread over Rorin’s face and down his neck, and he snatched up a towel, scrambling to cover his body. 

            “Don’t you know you’re supposed to knock before barging into the washroom?” K’avir’s mind took in every word, turning them over carefully before he understood. He let his eyes roam up and down the sculpted form once more before allowing a slightly mocking smile to pull at his lips. He formed a word in his head and tasted it, then let the breath carry it out of his mouth.

            “Whoops.” The quiet sound of the word seemed to freeze Rorin where he stood, and K’avir stepped backward and out of the room, humming as the door latch clicked into place.

 

            The Redguard had been absent from Jorrvaskr for several weeks, and Rorin had practically forgotten that he existed. Grumbling angrily, he finished drying off and put on his clothes. The plug popped loudly as he pulled it out and he watched the dirty water swirl down the hole in the tub, then, gathering his things, he pushed open the washroom door and found K’avir leaning against the wall in the hallway. 

            Rorin abruptly noticed that K’avir was absolutely filthy. Old blood and dirt were mixed together and caked onto the skin of his forearms and legs. Dust covered his entire body, giving his skin a pallid appearance, and his face was streaked with ash and dirt, war paint smudged out of place. His prisoner’s clothes were disgusting, stained with various kinds of unnamable substances. 

            “I’m sorry,” K’avir said, voice soft and raspy with disuse. He cleared his throat and continued in sign language. _‘_ _I f_ _orgot to knock because I was so excited by the idea of a real bath.’_  He smiled gently, looking a bit embarrassed. _‘_ _I didn’t mean to upset you.’_

            Rorin huffed irritably, but felt his anger ebbing away. The Redguard was clearly desperate to wash himself, and Rorin could understand that desire. He paused in front of the other man, and looked up into his dirt covered face. The silver eyes glinted in the torchlight, just as bright and sinister as when he had left. 

            “I need to talk to you later,” Rorin said. K’avir looked down at him, blinking slowly.

 _‘About what happened before?’_ He signed. Rorin nodded, and K’avir sighed.  _‘_ _Alright, I’ll meet you in the training yard when I’m done.’_  Rorin grunted his assent, and walked away. 

 

            About an hour later, Rorin sat on the porch, chatting with Farkas. The other man had found him contemplating the bubbles in a mug of mead, and had decided to keep him company. Rorin had just accidentally choked on a mouthful of liquid and was spluttering violently when the door opened and K’avir stepped out. Rorin and Farkas turned at the sound of the creaking hinges.

            K’avir had obviously scrubbed himself many times, and his ebony skin shone in the afternoon sun. The lines of war paint running down his nose and over his bottom lip were fresh and cleanly edged, the white contrasting with the darkness of his complexion. Golden hoop earrings and silver eyes glittered as he looked toward the two other men. Rorin saw that for the first time in his memory, K’avir had exchanged his prisoner’s rough spun clothes for a more respectable outfit. 

            The man wore a green woolen shirt and a pair of black trousers, but his feet were still bare. The shirt had fine red, orange, and gold embroidery around the collar, and its sleeves were rolled up to K’avir’s elbows, freeing his scarred hands and muscled forearms. Thick silver rings sparkled on his long fingers, and a silver glint beneath the shirt’s collar told Rorin that he wore a religious pendant of some sort. The trousers were plain black wool, but the cloth was finely made and looked extremely soft, with silver and white embroidery on the cuffs. Both garments and jewelry spoke of wealth and good taste **,** and the way the man carried himself was almost regal. Rorin was surprised, and he wondered why K’avir usually chose to wear prisoners’ clothes, especially if he had the resources to buy good quality clothing. Surprisingly, K’avir had left his scimitars somewhere, and carried only a simple, yet dangerous looking dagger.

            Catching Rorin’s gaze, K’avir jerked his head toward the other side of the training yard. Rorin pushed himself up from the bench and stood, stepping away from the table. He followed K’avir down the porch steps and over towards the wall of the training yard, then K’avir turned, gazing down into Rorin’s face. The shorter man scowled, annoyed by the height difference. 

            “I’m not sure what you were planning with that song,” Rorin started without preamble, then paused for a moment, finding his words. “It... well you saw what it did to me. I can’t have that happening again, especially not near other people. The beast blood is a secret, tightly held by the circle for generations, but it also makes us extremely dangerous.” He exhaled, trying to regain his spiking temper. “Whatever you did, it made the beast blood rise in me and I could barely control it long enough to leave the city. I couldn’t really remember who I was until the morning after.” He glared into K’avir’s eyes, which seemed to deepen to fathomless, silver pools as he watched. The man blinked slowly, light reflecting off the silver. 

_‘I told you, I forgot myself, and I really am sorry. I really didn’t mean to do anything. The song just slipped out unconsciously. Plus, I told you that that my mother tongue can be dangerous.”_

            Rorin grumbled, remembering that particular warning very clearly. 

            “I understand that it was an accident, but it can’t happen around people again. I only have so much control over the beast at any given time.” K’avir nodded, and inhaled.

            “I will be more careful,” he spoke quietly and slowly, every word precise, if thickly accented. Rorin could hear the dialect of southern Hammerfell mixed with something foreign that he couldn’t recognize. K’avir grinned, looking pleased with himself.  _’I’m learning some common now too,’_ he signed, _‘Although I can only speak in very short sentences.’_

Rorin gazed at him curiously. K’avir’s teeth were white and straight, with no traces of the sharp points Rorin had seen in Dustman’s Crypt.

            “Congrats then.” Rorin couldn’t keep an answering smile entirely off his face, but he coughed to cover it and scratched his beard, deciding it could use a trim. Returning to the problem at hand, Rorin addressed K’avir again. 

            “But in all seriousness, at least give me proper warning next time, so I can either leave or prepare myself,” he said. K’avir nodded, seemingly chastised, and Rorin returned to Farkas, who had been watching them apprehensively. 

            “It’s fine,” Rorin muttered to the other man, sitting back down. “Hopefully it won’t happen again.” Farkas watched K’avir disappear into Jorrvaskr. 

            “Those clothes are very high quality. I wonder where he got them...” Farkas mused. 

            “No one knows exactly where he came from, or how he got here,” Rorin commented, then finished the mead in his mug and set it down. “He’s not exactly the chattiest recruit we’ve ever had.”

        Farkas let out a hearty bark of laughter at that, startling a bird from the porch rafters. It took flight, raining some dirt and a single feather down on Farkas’ head. It was Rorin’s turn to laugh while Farkas brushed the dust out of his hair, grinning foolishly. 

            Rorin reached for another bottle of mead, and without bothering to pour it into a mug, he took a large gulp. 

            “What are you idiots laughing at?” Snapped a sharp, female voice behind them. Rorin choked again and banged his fist on the table, coughing while Farkas guffawed. When he could breathe, Rorin turned around. 

            “Get your laughs while you can,” Aela said irritably. She was slim and fair skinned, with dark red hair that fell in a thick sheet to drape over her shoulders. Steely gray eyes seemed to throw sparks as she glared at Farkas, who was attempting to stifle a last chuckle. Stripes of green war paint ran diagonally across her face, looking like mossy claw marks. She grimaced.

            “I think Skjor is planning on inducting the Redguard into the Circle tonight, if he decides to take the gift. I will double check with Skjor, but I think he wanted you to be the forebear.” Aela inclined her head toward Rorin. Rorin blinked and considered for a moment before answering, all traces of laughter gone.

            “I’ll do it.” It would be his first time giving the blood to someone, but he felt that it was right. Skjor had been Aela’s forebear, Aela had been Vilkas’ and Farkas’ forbear, and Farkas had been Rorin’s forebear. If K’avir accepted the offer, he would be part of the Circle, corrupted and changed by Rorin’s own blood. Rorin shivered slightly, wondering how the fearsome power the Redguard was hiding would manifest in beast form. 

 

            “I’ll do it,” he repeated, if only to convince himself. Farkas growled low in his throat.

“It’s gonna be a wild night then,” he muttered to Rorin as Aela stalked off. Rorin didn’t respond, staring blindly at the bottle he held while he wrestled with several different feelings that had welled up inside him. After a moment, he looked slowly up at Farkas. 

            “I feel... like this could be dangerous,” he said carefully, fidgeting with the mead bottle. Farkas nodded. 

            “I think I might make the change too, just to make sure things go okay. We have to make sure he stays out of the city.” Rorin nodded, holding back the tremor that threatened to shake the mead bottle from his hand. He stood, setting the bottle down, and looked at Farkas.

            “Wanna come meditate with me?” Rorin asked. Farkas grunted and pushed himself away from the table, moaning faintly as he straightened up. 

            “I don’t hear Eorlund working right now, maybe he’s taking a day off. We could go up there,” Farkas said. Rorin nodded and walked toward the stairs leading up to the Skyforge. Farkas followed him after grabbing a piece of bread off the table. Rorin could hear him munching on it while they climbed the stairs. 

            The two men settled next to each other on the sun-warmed stones, each adopting a comfortable, crossed-legged sitting position. They took a deep breath together, then exhaled in unison. A gentle breeze blew over their heads, bringing with it the scent of the wilds. Rorin caught the aroma of wildflowers, while Farkas smelled a herd of wild deer. After another deep breath, the two men turned inward. 

            Darkness pressed on their combined sight, broken only by the forms of two wolves loping towards them. The wolves stopped in front of their counterparts, pale red and steely gray eyes meeting their matches. Farkas and Rorin stayed seated, and after a moment, the wolves sat too. 

Time passed. The two men sat and gazed steadily into the eyes of their beasts. Occasionally, one wolf would sneeze or shift, but they would settle again after only a moment. The gray wolf was more restless than the white wolf, shuffling its feet and growling. Eventually, the wolves moved forward as one, and briefly touched noses with their counterparts before loping off again. 

            Rorin blinked in the dying light and stretched stiffly, hearing Farkas groan as he did the same. They stood together, and wordlessly clasped hands, then climbed down the stairs.

            Jorrvaskr was warm and softly lit as they entered, and Rorin felt his stomach rumble, responding to the delicious smell of food that wafted through the air. Farkas walked over to where Vilkas was sitting and sat down. Grumbling, Rorin followed and took a seat next to Farkas, ignoring Vilkas completely. It was routine for him to ignore the other man, and for Vilkas to return the courtesy, since neither of them liked the other very much. Sometimes Rorin wondered how an amiable and friendly man like Farkas could be the twin of a stiff, cocky, law-abiding jerk like Vilkas. Rorin knew that Vilkas wasn’t a bad man and that he struggled with suppressing the change more than Farkas did, but that didn’t mean he had to be nasty to people for no reason. Scowling, Rorin tore a chunk off a chicken drumstick and chewed thoughtfully, savoring the salty meat. As he took another bite, his ears picked up what Vilkas was growling to Farkas.

            “What do you mean, you’re going to change tonight? You swore to give it up!” 

            “The new blood is dangerous!” Farkas growled in return. “He might need more than just Rorin to keep him in check.” 

            “But you promised-” Vilkas began, but Farkas interrupted him. 

            “I can make my own choices, brother. I am old enough to understand the consequences at this point. Plus, I’ll only make the change if I need to.” Rorin grinned into his chicken leg, pleased with Farkas’ stand against his twin. Vilkas subsided into grumpy silence, nursing a mug of ale, and Farkas turned to Rorin.

            “Are you ready for tonight?” He murmured. Rorin nodded, swallowing laboriously. 

            “I think so,” he said, then took another big bite. Farkas glanced down the table to where K’avir was sitting, eating a roasted rabbit haunch. 

            The Redguard was still in his fine clothes, and he looked a little uneasy. He shifted in his seat. Rorin followed Farkas’ gaze, and a moment later, K’avir looked up, silver eyes meeting Rorin’s briefly before looking away. 

            “He knows what’s happening,” Rorin said to Farkas. 

            “Has Aela told him?” Farkas responded quietly. Rorin shook his head.

            “I don’t think so, but Skjor probably told him to meet us in the Underforge tonight.” Farkas stared down the table, lost in thought. 

            “That’s enough of a sign, I think,” he grunted. Rorin silently agreed with him, but he continued to dig into his chicken leg. 


	6. Chapter 6

            A couple hours later, Rorin and Farkas were waiting in the Underforge. Farkas leaned on the wall, dozing lightly, and Rorin was standing by the bowl in the center of the room. 

            “I think it’s about time,” Farkas said. Rorin jerked his chin up to show that he’d heard, then called on the beast. The familiar pain pounded in his chest as his body twisted. Moments later, his vision sharper and in shades of gray, Rorin snarled quietly, shaking himself. He crouched on the floor, snuffling at the familiar, friendly scent that was Farkas, a mix of oiled armor, sweat, wolf, and the unique smell of the man himself. Rorin turned to look at Farkas. The man inclined his head, then looked toward the door. Rorin’s ears twitched at the grinding sound of the door opening.

            A sudden pang of anxiety bloomed in Rorin’s chest as Skjor walked through the opening, leading K’avir. K’avir had changed his fine clothes for a pair of ragged trousers and nothing else. Despite the poor lighting, Rorin saw that the dark skin of his chest was marred by numerous pale scars,with only a light dusting of chest hair. Even Rorin’s beast mind was intrigued by the gold ring through the man’s right nipple; he had never seen anyone with a piercing like that before.

            One white ear flicked back while the other flicked forward. Rorin couldn’t understand what Skjor was saying to the Redguard, but he could remember what Skjor had said to him before his first change. Some fancy speech about how the blood was a “gift” and how Kodlak was not to be told. Rorin snorted. He’d had the beast blood for so long it didn’t feel like a gift anymore, just a tool, occasionally a form of entertainment, and sometimes an annoyance to him or danger to others.

            Rorin watched as Skjor talked to K’avir, and K’avir signed back. After one final exchange, Skjor drew his dagger and walked over to Rorin, pulling his arm out over the stone bowl. Rorin let out a low growl at the sharp pain as the dagger sliced into his skin, and blood stained his white fur while it poured into the basin. K’avir watched the dark crimson stream with fascination. When the blood began to pool, Skjor dropped the arm and Rorin licked the wound, feeling it healing even as his tongue ran over the cut. He looked up in time to watch K’avir lean over the bowl. The man scooped a handful of the blood into his mouth and Rorin’s sharp eyes saw his throat constrict as he swallowed, then there was a brief pause. A tingle ran from the end of Rorin’s nose to the tip of his tail.

            Suddenly, K’avir stiffened and dropped to the floor. 

 _“Block the entrance,”_ Farkas growled. Rorin bounded around to stand in front of the stone door. He watched, feeling a prickle of fear, as K’avir’s form began to contort violently, thrashing around on the stones. Ripping and snapping sounds filled the cave. The man let out a deep, guttural snarl that echoed off the stone walls, and he was still for an instant. Then thick, pitch black fur sprouted all over his body as he seemed to burst out of his skin. His face lengthened into a long muzzle filled with huge, sharp teeth. He stood and began to grow taller with each second, towering over the other men as claws erupted from his fingers and toes and a tail grew from the base of his spine. The claws dug furrows into the stone ground with a piercing screech. A deep howl laced with power filled the cave, seeming to resonate in Rorin’s bones. He felt compelled to join in, and barely resisted the urge. 

            A huge, night black werewolf stood in the cave, silver eyes wide and wild. It took a step toward Rorin, and he sensed a feral anger and confusion behind the wild gaze.

 _“Go right,”_  Rorin snapped decisively. Without hesitation, K’avir turned toward the secret exit and loped away. 

 _“You think you’ll be okay?”_ Farkas growled. Rorin nodded and ran after K’avir, following the musky scent of wolf. He found K’avir outside the Underforge, staring up at the sky.

 _“Away from the city,”_  Rorin commanded. The beast in K’avir seemed to understand the idea, and he bounded away, toward the east. Rorin followed after him, sniffing the air for trouble. His sharp eyes watched K’avir run, long, almost liquid movements carrying him over the ground so quickly that Rorin could barely keep up. Rorin sensed that K’avir just wanted to enjoy the feeling of running underneath the stars. A howl broke the night, and this time Rorin couldn’t help but join in, their voices twisting in eerie harmony.

            Once they were a small distance from Bleakwind Basin, K’avir skidded to a stop, and turned around to face Rorin. A second later, he began to shrink. Fur retracted into dark skin and claws disappeared, so quickly that Rorin could only blink before K’avir was human again. He was entirely naked. 

            The man groaned sleepily and tottered forward, then fell against Rorin. Confused, Rorin tried to stand him back up, but long, scar covered fingers twined into the white fur of Rorin’s chest and held on. 

 _“Mulhaan, faad,_ ” the man whispered. Rorin felt his body freeze into place. A part of his brain recognized the power of the strange language and obeyed, even as another part of him fought. A faint whine escaped Rorin’s mouth as his mind tried to comprehend the feeling of a body pressed against his beast skin. He wanted to run away, to put miles between him and the man, but he couldn’t move. 

            A sudden, comforting warmth spread from Rorin’s chest throughout his entire being, erasing the fear and confusion. He sighed as movement returned to him, and briefly forgetting himself, he dropped his muzzle onto K’avir’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of man, wolf, danger, and wildflowers. A moment later, a sound to their right caused Rorin to snort in surprise and jump away from the grasping hold.

            Aela bounded out of the darkness in human form, intent upon K’avir. She spoke to him, but Rorin was too befuddled to understand the human words. K’avir nodded, and from seemingly nowhere he withdrew his old prisoner’s clothes. Both Rorin and Aela blinked in surprise, but K’avir didn’t explain. He quickly pulled the clothes on and turned to Aela, signing a question. She nodded, and with a backwards glance toward Rorin, K’avir ran into the darkness. 

 _“Was he difficult to handle?”_  Aela asked Rorin, wolf voice gravelly. Rorin shook his head.  _“Well then, you’ve done your part for tonight, go home and rest,”_ She growled, looking at the spot where K’avir had vanished into the night.  _“I’ll take it from here.”_  Rorin grumbled, then leaned down to quickly plant his damp nose on her cheek before turning west, toward Whiterun. The run back to the city was short, but Rorin was exhausted, so it felt like hours. 

            He leaped up into the Underforge exit, then loped along the tunnel. Once he was inside the cave, he let his beast form melt away. Thoroughly exhausted, he left the Underforge and made his way towards Jorrvaskr. 

 

            It felt like he had only been asleep for a moment when his bedroom door crashed open with a loud bang. Rorin threw back his furs and grabbed his dagger from the bedside table, jumping to his feet before he was entirely awake. A snarl froze on his lips when he realized that it was only K’avir. The man was covered in blood and panting heavily, slit-pupiled eyes wild as they darted around the room. Rorin realized that he had managed to pull off his sleeping trousers during the night and he was completely bare. Flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and anger, Rorin glared at K’avir. The Redguard was clutching his chest. His breath came in gasps, his body rippling and twitching in spasms. The dull torchlight flickered off huge pointed teeth as the man’s mouth opened slightly, a wheezing breath rattling from his lungs. 

            “Help... me,” K’avir moaned. The words were labored and seemed to cause him intense pain. He slumped over, shaking, and Rorin reached out to grab him by the shoulders.

            “Get yourself together,” Rorin snapped and shook K’avir hard. “I know you’re not used to this, but are you going to be the master of your beast or not? Wrestle it to the ground if you have to!” K’avir sat down abruptly, as if his legs had given out from under him. Rorin knelt, fingers digging roughly into his muscled arm. 

            “You have to meditate,” Rorin tried to speak soothingly, but he felt shaken. “You have to go inside and control or make peace with your beast. Breathe,” he said, still grasping K’avir’s arm. He felt the man take a deep, shuddering breath.

            “Easy,” Rorin whispered, trying to breathe slowly and steadily. Gradually, K’avir seemed to relax and his breathing slowed. When the shaking stopped, Rorin took his hand away and sat down next to the man. He understood the struggle raging under the dark skin, since it had happened to him quite a few times. Breathing deeply, he settled into a meditation of his own.

After several long minutes, K’avir shifted. Rorin opened his eyes and looked up, meeting the man’s gaze. The strange, flat silver had once again turned to deep **,** swirling pools, half covered by K’avir’s drooping eyelids. 

            “Skjor is dead,” K’avir murmured, voice cracking slightly. “Aela lost control. I couldn’t help.” Rorin stared as he leaned back against the door and his eyes closed. A moment later he was asleep. 

            Rorin stood and pulled a roll of furs out from under his bed. He spread them out on the floor and picked the sleeping man up under the armpits. For his size, K’avir was oddly light, and Rorin had no trouble maneuvering him onto the furs. When he looked relatively comfortable, Rorin climbed back into his own bed, feeling exhausted and befuddled. He couldn’t quite understand what had just happened, and his brain was clamoring for sleep. K’avir would explain in the morning. Probably.

 

            A low groan woke Rorin from his sleep. He rolled over, tangled in his furs, and rubbed his eyes. His body told him that it was late morning. The furs whispered as he pulled them off, then stood up and stretched. His limbs ached.

 

_Why do I feel like I’ve been trampled by a mammoth?_

           

            The memories from the previous night flooded into his mind, and he looked down. K’avir was still sprawled on the ground, and he let out another low moan as Rorin watched. Shaking his head, Rorin got dressed and left his room, stepping carefully over the sleeping man. He almost ran into Farkas outside his door. 

            “What’s going on?” Farkas asked, worry creasing his forehead. “Aela and Skjor are still gone, and there’s a trail of bloody footprints leading to your door.” Rorin shushed him and gestured toward the stairs. Once they were farther down the hall, Rorin met Farkas’ worried eyes. 

            “K’avir barged into my room last night. He was covered in gore and seemed to be losing control of his beast blood more each second. He asked for my help, and I got him to sit and meditate, then he told me Skjor is dead.” Farkas let out a loud yelp.

            “What?!” Rorin sighed and rubbed his eyes. They were itching with tiredness. 

            “I know, I can’t really believe it either. But anyway, he said that, then said that Aela lost control and he couldn’t do anything. Then he passed out.” 

            “Should we go out and look for her?” Farkas asked. 

            “She’ll come back when she wants to,” Rorin mumbled, trying to hold back a yawn. “I’m hungry.” Farkas snorted in disbelief and ran up the stairs, probably to break the news to Vilkas. Rorin followed him at a slower pace, yawning widely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mulhaan, faad = (Be) still, warm


	7. Chapter 7

            Rorin jerked awake for the second time in two minutes, nearly upsetting his plate. Farkas was staring at him from across the table, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. Shaking his head to clear it, Rorin took a bite of his own breakfast, trying to keep his eyes open, then a sudden thought struck him and he put down his fork.

            “Do you know what the date is today?” He asked Farkas. The other man blinked.

            “It’s the twenty-fifth of Hearthfire today, dear.” A creaky voice spoke from behind him. A sinking feeling in his stomach made Rorin push his plate away and stand.

            “Thank you, Tilma,” he said, and walked toward the stairs. A minute later he knocked on Kodlak’s door.

            “Come in,” Kodlak’s muffled voice issued from inside. Rorin pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

            “Ah, Rorin. I was expecting to see you today.” Rorin nodded at the old man and rubbed a hand over his beard.

            “I shouldn’t be gone for more than a week,” Rorin said. He met Kodlak’s gaze, and saw tiredness there. “In fact, I should be back much sooner. I’ll leave tonight.”

            “Sit.” Kodlak’s motioned to the chair next to him, and Rorin sat. Kodlak sighed heavily, and Rorin looked at him, disturbed by the set of the old man’s face.

            “Your trip falls at a rather unfortunate time this year.” Rorin shifted uncomfortably, but Kodlak continued without pausing. “My bones are telling me that a storm is coming, and not the kind that rains down from the sky. If you leave today, you will not be here when it strikes.” Rorin’s breath caught in his chest.

            “I-” He began, but Kodlak’s cut him off.

            “However, I do not wish for you to forego your trip. I merely wish to warn you.” Kodlak stood and walked over to his bedside table. He searched in the drawer for a moment, then withdrew a battered journal and a fragment of metal. Rorin stared at the objects, unable to speak.

            “Your journey will take you into the mountains, correct?” Kodlak asked. Rorin nodded. The old man placed the journal and the fragment in his hands and gestured for him to stand. “Keep these with you, and keep them safe. You will need them when you return.” Rorin got to his feet. The old man caught his eyes and held them, then gripped Rorin’s forearm firmly in a parting gesture. Rorin returned the hold, feeling warmth pass between them.

            “Travel well, boy, and return safely,” Kodlak said, smiling. Rorin nodded again, and left to pack, rubbing his forearm thoughtfully.

            When he returned to his own room, K’avir had gone, presumably to wash. Rorin barely noticed, though the scent of the man lingered. Kodlak’s words ran circles in his mind while he found a small drawstring bag on a string to hang around his neck. He placed the metal fragment into the bag and pulled the strings tight.

            Rummaging in his drawers, he pulled out woolen undergarments, heavy wool trousers, and a thick woolen shirt. He laid them out over a chair, then found a pair of knitted wool socks and warm, fur-lined boots. He placed those on the floor in front of the chair, then carefully took down a set of fur armor from its peg on the wall. The armor had been his father’s, and it was much warmer than his own steel armor. Biting his lip, he laid the set gently on the ground next to the chair. Finally, he found his steel-reinforced cloth hood and put it on top of the armor. Dropping onto his bed, he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

            Several hours later, Rorin woke to a gentle knock on his door and the smell of wildflowers. He rolled out of bed as the door swung open to reveal K’avir standing in the hall, looking embarrassed. The man glanced around the room quickly, then his silver eyes fell on Rorin.

 _‘Did I wake you?’_  He signed uncertainly. Rorin yawned. 

            “I needed to wake up anyway, it’s fine. Do you need something?” He asked, beginning to undress. K’avir had seen him naked before, and he wasn’t in the mood to dawdle for modesty’s sake. The Redguard seemed taken aback for a moment, but recovered his composure fairly quickly.

 _‘I wanted to apologize for last night,’_  he signed, fingers flying.  _’I didn’t really mean to wake you up like that, but I didn’t have much control over my own mind and I just kind of found myself outside your door.’_

            “It’s alright,” Rorin said, pulling on his loincloth. “Really, I understand. Thank you for the apology, you did startle me a bit when the door crashed open like that.” He smiled wearily at the other man as he yanked the woolen socks onto his feet.

 _‘Where are you going?’_  K’avir inquired, the corners of his mouth pulling in a slight frown. Rorin sighed unhappily and tugged the shirt over his head.

            “Into the mountains,” he replied. K’avir raised a curious eyebrow, then shrugged.

 _‘Safe travels, then,’_  he signed.

            “Thanks.” K’avir left and closed the door behind him. Rorin stared after the other man for a moment, then continued to dress. The air in the valley was cold enough, but Rorin knew it would be infinitely colder in the mountains. Sighing again, he donned the fur armor.

            He planned to travel in beast form once his ascent into the mountains began, but he would have to be careful, and he would travel on foot until then. He pulled his hood up and tightened his weapon belt, checking to make sure that his axe, sword, and dagger were all in place. Shouldering a small rucksack, he tucked Kodlak’s journal inside the front of his armor and left his room, closing the door soundlessly.

            In the main hall, Rorin stuffed cheese and bread into the rucksack, then added a few chicken legs for good measure. He didn’t plan to be gone for an entire week, and he couldn’t carry quite enough food for a week anyway. Hitching the bag up a little, he pushed the front door open.

            He met Farkas on the stairs in front of Jorrvaskr. The other man paused gave him a small package and clasped his forearm in the farewell gesture.

            “You always forget incense,” he muttered, and continued up the stairs. Rorin felt a rush of gratitude towards Farkas as he put the package into his rucksack. He was right, Rorin always managed to forget incense. Feeling his mouth quirk up in a small smile, he walked down the rest of the stairs and headed for the gate leading out of the city.

 

            The sun was setting as Rorin reached Riverwood. He was good friends with a woman named Gerdur who lived in the town, having known her for several years, and he planned to ask if he could stay in her house for the night.

            The front door swung open as he approached the building.

“Hello, Rorin. You come here every year on the same day, so I thought I might see you this evening. And yes, you’re welcome to stay the night. Come in, come in.” She opened the door for him and he stepped into the house.

            “I really appreciate this, Gerdur,” Rorin said, shedding his fur armor and hanging it up by the door. He inhaled, taking in the wood and food smells of the house as the woman smiled warmly at him and returned to the stove.

            “Don’t worry, you know that you’re always welcome here.”

            “Still, thank you,” he smiled a little and rolled up his sleeves. “Can I help out with anything?”

 

            The next morning, Rorin stayed to help Gerdur’s husband chop wood until the sun was high in the sky. He accepted the piece of warm snowberry pie that Gerdur pressed into his hand and waved goodbye, then continued south on the road toward Helgen.

            The news that the city had been burned to the ground by a huge black dragon had arrived at Jorrvaskr more than a month earlier, and Rorin shivered at the memory. No dragons had been sighted since then, but then again, no dragons had been seen in Skyrim for hundreds of years. The scent of wet, burnt wood assaulted his nose just as the ruin of the city came into view. He skirted the skeletal structures, avoiding the bandits that had claimed the place, and headed for the mountains. 

            The air grew colder. Rorin kept climbing until it became dark enough that he could shift without being seen. Grunting, he hitched his pack up again and let the change take over him. Moments later, he continued to ascend, helped by longer limbs and claws. His wolf’s eyes could see much better in the dark than his human eyes could, and he had no problem following the trail that led up the mountainside. He knew to travel at night, since the border between Skyrim and Cyrodiil was occasionally patrolled. Ears pricked for any unusual sounds, he climbed. He only stopped briefly to kill and eat a rabbit that had startled from the snow at his feet.

Secunda and Masser were high in the sky when he crested the Jerall mountains. He paused to survey the land before him. The Imperial City was just barely visible in the distance. Snorting in the cold, he began to descend. He knew the way so well that he had arrived before he realized it. Listening carefully, he stopped in front of the tiny, weather-beaten cabin and let go of his beast form. The fur melted away and he stood in front of the house, still and silent.

            The cabin had been artfully concealed in a small valley between two minor peaks of the Jerall mountains on the Cyrodiil side, hidden away from curious wanderers. It had been abandoned for so many years that most of the roof had been blown off or caved in. The thick planks that made up the walls were gray and splintered, and many were missing. It smelled of dust and cold.

            Rorin took a breath and pushed the front door open. The rusty hinges squealed as they moved, sending an unpleasant shiver down his spine.

            “I’m home,” he said quietly. His mouth twisted bitterly as he moved into the ruined house. Boards creaked under his boots. He walked slowly past the first room and into the second. All the furniture except one rocking chair had either been stolen or destroyed over the years. Rorin paused, then moved up beside the chair.

            “Hello... Mama. It’s been a little while, hasn’t it?” The body in the rocking chair was tiny and stiff. His mother had always been small, but she seemed even smaller in death. Her black hair was streaked with gray and her skin was papery and wrinkled, ice crystals sparkling on her eyelashes.

            Under the frozen visage, spectral eyes blinked open and turned to gaze at Rorin.

            “He’s gone,” his mother whispered. “Your father has gone out hunting.”

            “I know, Mama. He never came back.” The specter turned back to stare at the wall. Rorin turned too, and knelt in the snow, then pulled off his rucksack and dug around for the incense, lighting a piece when he finally extracted the package. He stuck the smoking stick into the snow in front of him and looked up at the wall.

            A small piece of tattered pelt covered in white fur hung there, fluttering in the night winds.

            “I’m back again,” Rorin whispered haltingly. “It’s been fourteen years now... Papa.”

Rorin stayed kneeling in the snow for hours. The incense went out and he lit another. He spoke occasionally to the piece of pelt on the wall, pausing for long minutes to meditate and pray.

            A voice cut into his stupor as dawn was breaking in the east.

            “Rorin.” He looked up and saw that the specter of his mother had stood. “My son. I’ve waited for him long enough. He’s not going to return. Please, put me to rest.”

            Rorin got up and dusted off his knees, wiping his eyes on the fur of his gauntlet.

            “There is a scroll under these floorboards. Take me outside.” The specter looked into his eyes. “Please, send me on. I’m sorry. Take care of yourself, my son. I love you.”

            The body was light as a feather when Rorin lifted it out of the rocking chair. The specter vanished. He gently laid tiny figure in the snow outside the house. Stepping back, he unrolled the scroll he had found. The daedric rune was faded but he felt the warmth of the magica under his fingers. Placing his palm on the thick paper, he scooped up the rune and dropped it onto his mother’s body. Instantly, deep orange flames sprang from the papery skin. For a moment, the body was illuminated, glowing from the inside out. Then it was gone. Rorin stood by the black smudge on the snow for a long time, the smell of smoke filling his nostrils. The sun had risen fully before he moved again. He strode back into the house and nodded to the piece of pelt on the wall.

            “Goodbye, Papa. I’ll be back next year.” He paused by the black smudge. “Goodbye Mama, I’ll see you next year too.”

            Rorin let the beast form take his body, and began the climb back up to the peaks of the mountains. He was extra careful crossing the mountains, since border patrols were more likely during the day. He knew he should’ve waited until dark, but Kodlak’s warning echoed in his mind. The mountains were quiet. Rorin was quite alone as he descended the slope. Most of the way down, he let go of the beast form and continued on more slowly. The wind swirled around him, covering his tracks and chilling the tip of his nose.

 

            The warmth of the Sleeping Giant Inn hit Rorin’s face like a physical force. He sighed with pleasure and strode up the counter, taking a seat on a beaten stool.

            “Mead, please,” Rorin said, placing a few septims on the countertop. The innkeeper, a man named Orgnar, handed him a bottle and a tankard, then returned to wiping the dirty glass in his hands. After inspecting the tankard briefly, Rorin popped the cork and drank straight from the bottle, then set it down and stared at his fingers, feeling drained. An odd scent drifted past his nose, reminding him of the smell of a lavish feast in full swing with undertones of something sour.

            “You look like you might be interested in something a bit stronger,” a voice behind him said. The stranger’s tone and scent both irked Rorin, and he swiveled around to face the man.

            “What makes you say that?” Rorin asked coolly, trying to keep the anger out of his words. The stranger raised a quizzical eyebrow, brushing a greasy lock of brown hair behind his ear, and raised a tankard of his own. A red sparkle in his dark eyes made Rorin nervous.

            “Merely the dejected slope of your spine, my friend. Lower your hackles, and I’ll offer you an interesting proposition.”

 

_The door crashed open and a cold gust of wind made the candle on the table gutter. The man sitting at the table pushed back his chair and stood as another, smaller figure entered the house and shut the door. Snow swirled around the figure’s feet as he set a heavy, dangerous looking bow by the door and walked toward the other man._

_“I’m glad you’re home, my love. It’s been too long.” The first man used long, green, work-roughened fingers to gently pull back the figure’s hood. The face of the Breton underneath was slight, with pitch black eyes glittering from inside the eyeholes of the white skull tattooed into the tan skin._

_“It’s only been ten days… I’m just joking. I’ve missed you, my darling.” The shorter man reached out and pulled the smiling Orc toward him. They kissed tenderly, then separated._

_“Have you heard the news?” The Breton snorted with amusement, and stroked a gentle finger over one of the Orc’s tusks. “Someone broke into the temple of Dibella in Markarth and trashed the place.” The Orc grinned and let out a rough chuckle._

_“Ooh, someone has a rough time ahead of them,” he said. The Breton laughed._

_“You have no idea. Remember when that poor idiot was me? It was so embarrassing, but I met you the day afterwards. And I’m never drinking with HIM again.” He took off his cloak and dropped it onto the chair next to the table. Untying the neck of his shirt, the Breton ran a hand through his short black hair and reached for the Orc again. He planted a soft kiss in the patch of chest hair visible above the low neckline of his husband’s shirt._

_“Come on, it’s freezing outside. Warm me up.”_

_A deep growl of pleasure rumbled through the burly chest as the Orc pulled his lover into their bedroom. As the door slammed behind them, a disgruntled looking woman climbed the stairs from the basement._

_“Housecarl or no, I’m not sticking around for this, it’s not part of my sworn duties.” The woman yanked the front door open and snow promptly blew into her face. “My Thane is right though, it’s goddamn freezing out here.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we get some backstory for our main character! His entire story will not be revealed for a while though.
> 
> A different Dragonborn of mine married Moth gro-Bagol and moved into Honeyside. He isn't a Dragonborn in this fic, but he is the Thane of Riften and he works with the Dark Brotherhood.


	8. Chapter 8

            A loud, crashing sound drove into Rorin’s ears, wreaking havoc on his pounding brain. He sat up, clutching his head, and tried to make sense of the noises and smells.

            “What?” He grunted. Someone was standing in front of him, screeching loudly. Rorin stood, swaying dangerously, and attempted to focus.

            “-Wake up! That’s right, it’s time to wake up, you drunken blasphemer! This is a disaster! Look at this mess! How dare you-” The woman was cut off as another, older woman pushed her aside. Finally focusing, Rorin realized that the older woman was a priestess.

            “Where am I?” He asked groggily. “And what do you mean, blasphemer?” Sparks practically flew from the older woman’s eyes.

            “I see. So, you don’t remember fondling the statuary, then?” Rorin felt his face flush. “I’m guessing you also don’t remember coming in here and blathering incoherently about a marriage or a goat. Which means you don’t remember losing your temper and throwing trash all over the temple.”

            Reading the situation carefully, Rorin opened his eyes wide, letting his most innocent and honest expression take over his face.

            “I’m sorry,” Rorin said, “I don’t even remember how I got here.” After a moment, the priestess seemed to relent.

            “Well, you were deep in your cups when you got here. You were ranting but most of it was slurred. You said something about Rorikstead.”

            Rorin suddenly realized that he was completely naked. Flushing again, he covered himself with his hands.

            “I’m sorry, really. Please, let me help you clean up.” The priestess looked him up and down and sighed.

            “Wait here, I’ll find you a robe.”

 

            Grumbling with annoyance, Rorin ran down the stone road away from Markarth. His underclothes, boots, and weapon belt had all been lying on the ground outside the temple, but his clothing and armor were still missing. A few septims from the secret pocket in his weapon belt had bought him the robe, and he had left the temple quickly, leaving the priestess muttering irritably in his wake. The robe tangled around his legs a bit as he ran, but it covered him and that was all he needed. His axe and sword were gripped tightly in his hands, and his eyes darted from side to side.

            Stopping abruptly, he lifted his face to the wind and sniffed. To his right, the road split away and went uphill, then disappeared. Closing his eyes, he inhaled again. The scent on the wind rapidly became clear and strong. Blood, old and new, silver, and wildflowers.

            “It can’t be,” Rorin snorted in disbelief. He looked to his right, up the road, and saw sun glinting off ebony skin and golden hoops. “Why now, of all times...” Rorin rubbed his eyes, willing away the pain in his head. He knew he looked terrible from experience. Heavy drinking always gave him dark circles under his eyes and tinged his pale skin with gray. His eyes were probably bloodshot and he had lost his hair tie somewhere during the night, so his hair was matted and tangled around his face. 

 

_And my mouth tastes disgusting too..._

 

            Sighing in defeat, Rorin turned to face the tall Redguard who had twin scimitars strapped to his back.

 _“Pruzah sul, dii sivaas,”_  K’avir said quietly. He grinned, and his teeth flashed in the sun, sending a stab of pain through Rorin’s head.

            “Don’t do that,” Rorin muttered, rubbing his eyes again.

            “You’ve seen better days,  _sivaasi_ ,” the Redguard chuckled lightly. He reached out a finger and touched Rorin’s bruised cheekbone. Warmth spread throughout Rorin’s body, radiating from the touch and chasing away the aches and pains in his limbs.

            “You didn’t have to do that,” Rorin said, looking accusatorially at the other man while he wiped sweat from his forehead. K’avir shrugged, a look of amusement on his dark face.

 _‘I am aware of that,’_  he signed. Rorin scowled.  _‘_ _That robe isn’t your usual style, is it?’_

            “Why are you here anyway?” He asked, ignoring the second comment.

 _‘I’m doing something for Kodlak.’_ Rorin snorted at the vague answer, but K’avir didn’t seem to want to elaborate.  _‘_ _Why are you here?’_

            “I got into a drinking contest in Riverwood and ended up in Markarth. Don’t ask me how, because I don’t know. I’m headed to Rorikstead now, to try to find the guy who I had the contest with. I think he took my stuff. I need that armor back.” Rorin felt a burning behind his eyes that the healing spell hadn’t eased.

 _‘Well, off to Rorikstead, then,’_ K’avir signed. He seemed to be more cheerful than usual.

            “You’re coming with me?” Rorin asked. K’avir merely grinned and sauntered down the road toward Rorikstead. Muttering to himself, Rorin jogged to catch up.

 

            “This is ridiculous!” Rorin squawked as he ran down the hillside, pursued closely by a goat. A little way behind him, K’avir let out a joyful yell and swung the giant’s own club toward its shins. A resounding thud echoed over the hill, and K’avir ran down past Rorin. He let out another wordless shout and took a flying leap from the rocks onto the road. Rorin gaped slightly as the man rocketed toward the town, running faster than was humanly possible. Rubbing the back of his aching head, Rorin made his way after K’avir, trailing the bleating goat.

            The farmer was happy to have his precious goat back, and directed them toward Whiterun and a woman named Ysolda. 

 

            The sun cast orange light over the streets of Whiterun as Rorin and K’avir ran toward Jorrvaskr. K’avir’s good mood had evaporated as soon as they reached the city, and the scent of destruction had reached Rorin before the gates were open. The closer they got to Jorrvaskr, the stronger the stench of death became, until it was thick in Rorin’s nostrils, making his blood pound with fear. He glanced at K’avir as they approached Jorrvaskr, and saw that the man’s pupils had turned to slits. He shivered and looked away. 

            Bodies littered the stairs in front of Jorrvaskr. Gasping and out of breath, Rorin took in the scene with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Aela and Torvar stood over dead Silver Hand members, both spattered with gore. Rorin and K’avir walked up the stairs, and neither Aela nor Torvar spared them a second glance.

            An angry voice cut through the air as soon as K’avir pushed the front door open.

            “Where have you been?” Vilkas’ face was drawn and pale underneath the coat of dirt and war paint, eyes flashing dangerously.

 _‘I was doing Kodlak’s bidding,’_ K’avir signed, just as Rorin asked, “What happened here?” Vilkas grunted, and directed his gaze toward K’avir.

            “I hope it was important, because it means you weren’t here to defend him.” He scowled at Rorin. “It was the Silver Hand. They finally found enough courage to attack Jorrvaskr. We fought them off, but... the old man... Kodlak... he’s dead.” Rorin’s hand clutched involuntarily at his chest.

            “He knew,” Rorin whispered.

            “Was anyone else hurt?” K’avir asked slowly. Vilkas stared at him, temporarily speechless. Then he shook his head.

            “No, but they made off with all our fragments of Wuuthrad.” Vilkas shook himself again and met K’avir’s gaze. “You and I are going to reclaim them. We will bring the battle to their chief camp. There will be none left living to tell their stories. Only songs of Jorrvaskr will be sung.” Vilkas put a hand to his sword. “We will avenge Kodlak, and they will know terror before the end.” K’avir paused for a moment, his slit pupil eyes glittering in the firelight.

 _‘Let’s go then,’_  he signed. Rorin turned and grasped his arm. Muscles rippled beneath his fingers as K’avir looked down at him. The silver of his eyes deepened and swirled as Rorin watched, pupils returning to normal.

            “I need to go too. Thank you for accompanying me on the way here,” he spoke softly. K’avir’s mouth twitched.

            “Be careful,” the Redguard murmured. Rorin nodded, and strode into the room. He ran down the stairs to find his steel armor and a set of clothes. After he dressed, he ran back up the stairs. Grabbing a pheasant leg and a hunk of bread from the table, he paused briefly to kneel by the body of the old man and pray. He devoured the food as he left the building and walked down into the marketplace.

            “So, you’re finally back.” The woman’s voice startled Rorin and he almost dropped his pheasant leg. Turning quickly, Rorin met the angry eyes of Ysolda. “Look, I’ve been patient, but you still owe me.” Rorin swallowed a bite of pheasant.

            “Okay, how much do I owe you?” He grunted. The woman demurred.

            “It’s not about the money, really. I wouldn’t have given you the wedding ring on credit if you weren’t so obviously in love. But, if there isn’t going to be a wedding, the least you can do is give the ring back. That was one of my best pieces.”

            “Do you know what I did with it?” Rorin asked nervously.

            “You went right out to give it to your fiancée! Don’t you even remember where you left her? And after you told me that sweet story of how you met in Witchmist Grove! I can see why she left you.” Rorin sighed heavily.

            “Listen I just need to get to the wedding. Please.” He met Ysolda’s gaze and held it.

            “Oh, fine. You must have had a wild night if you can’t remember any of that. But I suppose everyone gets the jitters before their wedding. And I did say you could take a bit of time paying me back. You said the ceremony was going to be at Morvunskar. Don’t forget you still owe me!” Rorin sighed again, and rubbed his face.

            “Thank you, Ysolda. I’ll remember to pay you back.”

            Rorin gnawed on the pheasant bone as he jogged out of Whiterun. He paid the wagon driver outside the city twenty septims and told him to drive to Windhelm, then climbed into the back. He dozed off as they were passing Valtheim Towers, and woke with a start as the wagon halted in front of the bridge leading to Windhelm. Rorin blearily thanked the driver and began to walk down the road. The sky was dark and the stars twinkled brightly above him as he trudged along, boots making little noise on the stone road. He guessed it was a little past midnight when he reached Morvunskar.

            Rorin walked up the road toward the archway in the wall of the fortress and yawned, jaw cracking.

            “Are you planning on going in there by yourself?” Rorin jumped and spun around, yanking his axe and sword from his belt. K’avir stood, surveying Rorin calmly, his silver eyes shining with a sinister light.

            “How did you get here so quickly?”

 _‘I ran. Wolves run faster than cart horses,’_  he signed. Rorin shrugged.

            “I guess that makes sense. Well, I was planning on going in there by myself, but I would love come company,” he said wearily. K’avir nodded. Ignoring the scimitars strapped to his back, he held out his hands, and a rushing sound heralded the appearance of two shimmering, translucent purple swords. Rorin stared at the weapons that had been conjured from thin air and shivered. Then he turned and walked toward the castle entrance.

 

            Sweaty and covered in blood, Rorin climbed the stairs toward the swirling purple light. He was exhausted from running around all day and wanted his armor back. K’avir grabbed his arm before he could step into the portal.

 _‘Slow down, idiot. That could be dangerous. I’m coming with you.’_ Rorin scowled, but he let K’avir enter the portal before him. He followed close behind, and was surprised to find himself on a path in a pleasantly warm, misty glade. The aromas of food and damp earth floated past him. The small stone bridges leading across the river were lit by small lanterns and the occasional firefly. K’avir peered around suspiciously. 

            “This doesn’t look very dangerous,” Rorin said, attempting to stem the flow of blood from a deep cut on his cheekbone. K’avir turned to him and sighed. 

            “Come here,  _sivaasi_ ,” he said, beckoning to Rorin. 

            “Why do you keep calling me that?” Rorin complained, but he was exhausted and aching all over, so he leaned obediently toward K’avir, closing his eyes. 

            “I just healed you earlier today,” K’avir murmured, touching gentle fingers to Rorin’s skin. Once again Rorin caught the aroma of spices and wildflowers that hung around the man. “You should be more careful with your face.” Rorin snorted loudly and pulled away. 

            “Your common is getting better every day,” he snapped, rubbing the new scar. 

 _‘I’ve been practicing,’_ K’avir signed, then covered his mouth. Rorin squinted at him. He could’ve sworn the other man was blushing.

            A sudden cheering echoed through the glade, startling an owl from a nearby tree. Rorin jumped. Quiet as a shadow, K’avir started toward the source of the noise, trailing Rorin behind him. They walked for a few minutes, then rounded a bend in the path. 

            The clearing they entered was dimly lit by strings of lanterns hanging from several trees. A small feast was laid out on a long table in the middle of the clearing. About twelve men were seated around the feast, yelling, eating, drinking, and tipping out of their chairs. Rorin looked to his right. 

            “You’re here! I was beginning to think you might not make it.” Recognizing the Breton man from the Sleeping Giant Inn, Rorin scowled.

            “It was quite a trip. Where are we?” He asked. The man grinned mockingly.

            “I thought you might not remember your first trip here. You had a big night. I think you’ve definitely earned the staff.” 

            Remembering some details from the previous night, Rorin scratched his beard. 

            “Well, I had all the things needed to repair it, but I put them in my rucksack, and I think you have that particular item.” The Breton man laughed, a deep sound that made the hair on the back of Rorin’s neck prickle.

            “Oh, the Hagraven feather and so on. Those we never really important. You see...” 

A tornado of deep purple light gathered around the Breton man and momentarily flared. When the light disappeared, the Breton had vanished. In his place stood a tall man wearing a dangerous looking set of ebony armor. The armor seemed to glow red, and it gave off a faint smell of blood. The man’s skin was a deep, jet black, with black eyes glittering from inside the bizarre red design that covered his face. The finishing touch on his otherworldly appearance was the set of curling horns that twisted back from his forehead. The drawling voice of the Breton issued from the Daedra’s fanged mouth.

            “I really just needed something to encourage you to go out into the world and spread merriment. And you did just that! I haven’t been so entertained in at least...” The Daedra paused to think for a moment, then grinned. “Well, it’s been quite a few years, to say the least.” 

            “So all of this was just a prank?” Rorin grumbled. This seemed to infuriate the Daedric man, and his grin twisted into a grimace.

            “Just a prank? Just a prank? Sanguine, the Daedric Lord of Debauchery, does not deal in mere ‘pranks.’” The Daedra fixed Rorin with a shrewd, if slightly unfocused eye. “This may have begun as a minor amusement, but it wasn’t long before I realized you’d make a more interesting bearer of my not-quite-holy staff.”

            Exhausted and confused, Rorin rubbed his eyes and stared at the man. 

            “Why did you choose me? I’m already in service to a different prince,” he said. Sanguine chuckled. 

            “I know that, but let’s be honest, here. I don’t always think my decisions through. But you...” he gestured toward Rorin, “You’re going places. Maybe a little influence from your old uncle Sanguine could help adjust your course a bit...” Rorin sighed.

            “Thanks, I guess,” he said, yawning widely. The Daedric Prince smiled, baring his teeth.

            “My pleasure. But I think it’s time for you to go. No fun keeping you locked up in here with the staff. Ta-ta, for now.”

            Rorin felt a force grip his body, and instinctively reached out for K’avir. 

            “No, no, I need him here for just another moment,” Sanguine said, waving his hands in a shoo-ing motion. “Don’t worry, I’ll send him on soon.”

 

            Rorin drifted into consciousness lying face down on a rough wooden floor. The smell of dust filled his nostrils. He blinked, then rolled over to stare up into the confused face of the innkeeper, Orgnar. 

            “What time is it?” Rorin groaned, gingerly touching his forehead to check for splinters. 

            “It’s about three in the morning,” the man replied, still looking at him in a bemused way. 

            “How much is a room?” The words felt thick in Rorin’s mouth. He realized that he had to sleep soon or else he would pass out.

            “Ten septims,” Orgnar grunted. Rorin dug in his pockets and handed the coins over, then tottered to his feet.

            “This way.” The man gestured to a free room to the right of the counter. Rorin barely managed to take off his armor before falling onto the bed with a long sigh. He was asleep a moment later. 

            A few minutes after Rorin began to snore, K’avir appeared by the side of the bed, holding a strange staff topped with a spiky red rose. He laid the staff gently against the wall of the room and sighed, rubbing the top of his shaved head. The Daedric Prince had convinced him to stay in the glade for much longer than he intended, pushing tankard after tankard into his hands, but it seemed as if only a little time had passed in reality.

            “I can’t believe I lost twenty septims to that ass,” K’avir muttered. “Granted, I probably shouldn’t have challenged him to that pie eating contest, and I definitely shouldn’t have drunk so much.” He smothered a burp and looked over at Rorin. 

            The Nord man was lying in the bed, a beam of moonlight causing his hair to glow faintly in the darkness. He shivered and whimpered in his sleep, then rolled over, tugging at the neck of his shirt. K’avir watched as Rorin’s face twisted and he whimpered again. 

            “They... the... of Stendarr...” Rorin mumbled. One of his hands twitched, and K’avir noticed that his nails had become long and pointed. Rorin sat bolt upright.

            “They took him!” He hissed, a wild look in his pale red eyes. K’avir moved forward and placed a careful, scar covered hand on Rorin’s forehead, feeling cold and clammy skin. 

            “Alright, move over,” K’avir whispered, pulling off his rough-spun tunic. He pushed the frantic Rorin to the other side of the bed and sat next to him, tipsily slinging an arm around the man’s shaking shoulders. The headboard of the bed dug into his back but he stayed still, holding Rorin and humming softly. After a few moments of struggling, Rorin seemed to calm down, and a minute later he was asleep again. K’avir sighed. Sanguine must’ve added something to the ale he was serving, because K’avir rarely became intoxicated, as he was now. He looked down at Rorin, who was beginning to snore, and gently tugged a snowy lock of the man’s pure white hair. The contrast between the glowing lock and his fingers was striking, as if a piece of darkness had captured an errant bit of moonlight. Snorting at his own silliness, K’avir shifted into a more comfortable position and closed his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Night to Remember is one of my favorite quests, it's so funny
> 
>  
> 
> Pruzah sul, dii sivaas = Good day, my beast (kind of a weird thing to call someone, but oh well)  
> Sivaasi = beast (with possessive suffix, essentially still 'my beast')


	9. Chapter 9

            Rorin woke with a start and sat up. Sunlight streamed through the small window, illuminating particles of dust floating in the still air. His jaw cracked as he yawned and stretched, involuntarily making a face at the taste in his mouth. A soft noise to his left made him jump and look around. K’avir was lying next to him, one leg hanging over the edge of the straw-stuffed mattress. The curious smell of wildflowers that hung around him was stronger than ever. Rorin’s gaze traveled swiftly down the Redguard’s scarred chest, settling for a moment on the two silver pendants resting on his collarbone, then on the golden ring in his nipple. Curiosity made him lean a little closer, then he noticed that K’avir’s eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling.

 _‘Good morning,’_ the man signed. _’Are you feeling better? You seemed to be having a nightmare when I got back.’_ He turned his head to meet Rorin’s gaze, his silver eyes flat and shining. Rorin continued to stare at him, momentarily stunned. K’avir sat up, suddenly very close to Rorin, and reached out to place the back of his hand against Rorin’s forehead. Rorin flinched away from the touch.

 _‘Your skin feels normal again,’_ K’avir signed, then got out of the bed, bending over to pick up his tunic. 

            Rorin’s gaze was instantly drawn to the swirling silvery designs tattooed into K’avir’s dark skin. The pattern seemed to shift as K’avir moved, glittering in the sunlight. The abstract design looked like the gaping, fanged mouth of some sort of animal or monster. As he watched, the design seemed to close its mouth and glare at him with a beady silver eye. He blinked, and the illusion faded, leaving him staring into the roaring mouth again. 

            K’avir pulled the rough-spun tunic over his head and turned around, tilting his head slightly as he looked at Rorin. 

 _‘I have to get back soon, so if you’re going to come with me you should get up.’_ Rorin grunted and swung himself out of the bed, groaning as a thousand aches and pains assaulted him all at once. 

 _‘You’ve had a wild couple of nights haven’t you,’_ K’avir signed, grinning wickedly. Rorin shot him a nasty look and began to don his armor. 

            “Where’s your perfect common now?” He grumbled. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw K’avir shrug.

 _‘Signing is still easier for me. Oh, I almost forgot.’_ K’avir took the staff leaning against the wall and offered it to Rorin.  _‘_ _This is for you, with complements from Sanguine himself,’_ he signed after Rorin had taken the staff. 

            The wood felt prickly and unnatural under Rorin’s fingers as he ran an experimental hand over the staff. He gently touched one of the rose’s outer petals and pulled back quickly, surprised by its warmth.

            “This is... the Sanguine Rose.” Rorin faltered, realizing that he held a Daedric artifact older than he could comprehend. Stories about the powers that the staff contained were widely varied, so Rorin wasn’t sure exactly what it could do. 

 _‘You can try it when we’re outside,’_ K’avir signed. He pushed the door open and walked into the main room of the inn. Rorin pulled on his boots and grabbed the staff, then followed him out.

            Once they were outside the inn, they began to walk in the direction of Whiterun. Rorin continued to investigate the staff, muttering under his breath as they crossed a bridge. 

            “Honestly, I would prefer that you hold onto this,” Rorin said to K’avir, indicating the staff. “The companions don’t really use magic, and this thing makes me a little nervous.” 

 _‘At least try it out once before handing it off to me,’_ K’avir signed, his eyes glimmering with interest. Scowling, Rorin backed up and raised the staff, feeling power gathering around the rose fixed to its top. He brought it down with a swish, and a swirling purple light appeared. A tall, muscular Daedra stepped out, longsword in hand. He straightened and looked around, spotting Rorin and K’avir. 

            “I, uh, whoops,” Rorin managed. He swallowed. “Sorry, that was just a test run, we don’t actually need you right now.” The Daedra snorted mirthlessly and disappeared in a puff of acrid smoke that smelled strongly of brimstone. K’avir and Rorin exchanged looks, then Rorin handed the staff to K’avir without a word. K’avir made a quick movement with his hands and the staff disappeared. 

            “What was that?” Rorin asked as they began to walk again. 

 _‘A spell of sorts. It stores my things in another place. Unfortunately it has a maximum capacity, but it holds quite a lot of stuff.’_ Rorin was intrigued. 

            “I’ve never heard of a spell like that,” he said, scratching his beard. “It sounds really convenient.” K’avir nodded.

 _‘It even sorts the items into categories when I put them in,’_ he signed, _‘And I can take them out whenever I want.’_  He made another quick motion and drew a large wheel of cheese from seemingly nowhere. Rorin gaped at him.

 _‘Would you like a piece?’_ K’avir signed, then offered him a chunk of the cheese. 

            “That’s amazing,” Rorin said through his mouthful while K’avir stuffed the cheese back into the invisible rucksack spell. 

 _‘If I may ask,’_ K’avir began, his eyes catching the light as he turned to look at Rorin,  _‘_ _Were you having a nightmare last night?’_ Rorin looked away from him, unhappily reminded of the previous night.

            “Yes, I was,” he muttered. K’avir stared at him for a minute.

 _‘What was it about? If you’re willing to tell me.’_ Rorin glanced at him, then looked at the ground again. 

            “I was dreaming about the day my father died. I would really rather not talk about it.” K’avir’s eyes widened.

 _‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,’_ he signed. 

            “It’s fine. But, if we’re going to ask prying questions, where did you get that tattoo on your back?” K’avir rubbed a thoughtful hand over the back of his neck before answering. 

 _‘I got it when I was seventeen, somewhere in south Hammerfell. I paid a pretty large amount for it too.’_ K’avir paused, his eyes flattening as Rorin watched.  _’It was black at first, but it turned that silvery color after about a year.’_

            “Unusual,” Rorin mused. “Do you think something was wrong with the ink?” K’avir grinned wryly.

 _‘I’d be more inclined to believe that something was wrong with me, but I suppose that’s not important right now,’_ he signed. 

            “Huh.” Rorin thought for a minute, then decided to ask something else.

“I, uh, I’ve never seen a piercing like that before,” he muttered, feeling his face heat up as he gestured to his chest. K’avir grinned. 

 _‘Piercings things other than ears is not an uncommon practice where I come from,’_ he signed.  _’Some people pierce their lips, noses, eyebrows, and even tongues.’_ Seeing Rorin’s shocked expression, he chuckled.  _’Mages sometimes specialize in body modifications. They can toughen the skin around piercing so they won’t rip out by accident.’_ Rorin yelped like a wounded dog, the idea of a piercing being ripped out making his stomach roll. K’avir laughed outright, surprising the other man. Rorin couldn’t remember if he had ever heard K’avir laugh. The sound was deep and warm, and it crackled almost like a small fire. 

 _‘They also have special runes they can cast on the metal so if anyone touches it with the intent to pull it out, it will shock or burn them.’_ Rorin gulped, still unsettled. 

            “And what are those pendants for?” He asked. K’avir put a hand to his throat.

 _‘They are the symbols of two of the deities of the Yokudan Pantheon. I worship Leki, the goddess of aberrant swordsmanship, and Tava the Bird God, spirit of the air.’_ Rorin frowned in puzzlement. He hadn’t heard of those gods before.

            As Whiterun came into view, K’avir stopped.

 _‘Wait,’_ he signed. Rorin paused, a hand halfway to his beard, and shot a questioning look at the other man.

 _‘I think I should tell you what I was doing for Kodlak, because it concerns you as well.’_ The mention of the previous Harbinger’s name sent a pang of sadness through Rorin’s chest.  _’Kodlak sent me to collect the heads of the Glenmoril witches. He believes that if we take one of the heads and burn in the central brazier in Ysgramor’s tomb that we can cure his lycanthropy, even in death.’_ K’avir turned his silver gaze to Rorin, eyes reflecting the light of the setting sun.  _’I have five heads. Once I have cleansed Kodlak’s spirit, you may have the chance to do the same for yourself, if you want.’_

            Rorin felt the breath leave his lungs. He hadn’t thought that a cure existed. To be free of the beast blood and all of its urges... but he’d had the blood since he was a teenager, and it was one of the few things that tied him to his father. 

            “I need time to think about it,” he said, voice hoarse. K’avir nodded.

 _‘I intend to offer the same opportunity to the others of the circle,’_ he signed. Rorin smiled weakly.

            “Aela won’t accept it. She enjoys the blood and the power it holds too much to want to give it up. But the twins probably will.” K’avir nodded again. 

 _‘That’s what I thought as well. I’m also going to need the fragment of Wuuthrad that Kodlak gave you for safekeeping.’_ Rorin raised his eyebrows. _‘Sanguine mentioned it.’_ K’avir signed, smiling crookedly.  _’He said that the things you misplaced during your night of fun will be on your bed when you return to Jorrvaskr.’_

            Rorin sighed with relief as they began walking again. 

            “I was worried I wouldn’t get my stuff back,” he said. “That armor means a lot to me, and that fragment and Kodlak’s journal are extremely important as well. I suppose I should give you the journal with the fragment.” K’avir looked down at him, a slight crease is his dark brow. 

            “Are you alright?” He asked, quiet voice scratchy and rough. Rorin looked up, meeting his eyes.

            “I’m just... so tired,” he said, running a hand through his messy hair. “And I need a bath.” K’avir chuckled. 

_‘A bath is a good idea.’_

 


	10. Chapter 10

            The sun was just disappearing behind the horizon when they reached Jorrvaskr. Farkas was waiting for them on the stairs.

            “We were waiting for you so we could begin the funeral.” Rorin and K’avir followed him up the stairs to the Skyforge, where the rest of the Companions were already gathered.

Once Eorlund had seen them, he turned to the group.

            “Who will begin?” He asked. Aela stepped forward, her face set and grim.

            “I’ll do it,” she said, her voice clear in the silence. 

            “Before the ancient flame...” she said.

            “We grieve,” the Companions answered.

            “At this loss...” Eorlund’s deep voice rang out.

            “We weep.”

            “For the fallen...” Vilkas rumbled.

            “We shout.”

            “And for ourselves...” Farkas said softly.

            “We take our leave.” Aela walked forward and set her torch to the pyre, igniting the wood. As flames began to lick up the sides, she stepped back and turned to the group.

            “His spirit is departed,” she said, steely eyes hard. “Members of the circle, let us withdraw to the Underforge, to grieve our last together.” 

            While Aela and the others moved toward the stairs, Eorlund approached K’avir. 

            “Do you have the fragments of Wuuthrad, still?” He inquired. “I’ll need to prepare them for mounting again.” K’avir nodded and withdrew a small bag from his rucksack spell, then handed it to the older man. 

            “Good. Of course, I have a small favor to ask of you. There’s another piece, that Kodlak always kept close to himself. Would you go to his chambers and bring it back for me? I’m not sure I’m the best one to go through his things.” K’avir nodded again. “Thank you. I’ll be here,” Eorlund said gruffly, turning back to the flaming pyre. K’avir turned to Rorin and jerked his head toward Jorrvaskr. Rorin snorted and started for the stairs. 

            Just as Sanguine had said, Rorin’s fur armor and clothes were laid out on his bed, with the small drawstring pouch and the journal laying on his pillow. He pulled open the drawstring bag and handed the last fragment to K’avir.

            “I’ll meet you in the Underforge,” he said, moving to hang the armor on its hook. K’avir left the room, and Rorin tossed his clothes into the basket at the foot of his bed. Muttering about obnoxious Daedric Princes, Rorin removed his armor and set it aside for cleaning in the morning. Deciding that his clothes weren’t too gross, he left his room and headed for the stairs to the main hall. 

            He met K’avir outside the Underforge, and they entered together.

            “The old man had one wish before he died, and he didn’t get it. It’s as simple as that.” Vilkas’ voice still grated in Rorin’s ears. He scowled and walked up to stand beside Farkas. Aela turned to Vilkas, steely eyes shining in the torchlight.

            “Being moon-born is not so much of a curse as you might think, Vilkas.” Vilkas bristled.

            “That’s fine for you, but he wanted to be clean,” the man growled. “He wanted to meet Ysgramor and know the glories of Sovngarde, but all that was taken from him.”

            “And you avenged him,” Aela shot back.

            “Kodlak did not care for vengeance.” Farkas’ quiet voice cut through their argument, and they both stopped to look at him. Vilkas sighed.

            “No, Farkas, he didn’t, and that’s not what this is about.” Rorin growled at the insult to his friend, but Vilkas ignored him and continued. “We should be honoring Kodlak, no matter our own thoughts on the blood.” Aela shifted uncomfortably. 

            “You’re right. It’s what he wanted, and he deserved to have it.” 

            “Kodlak used to speak of a way to cleanse his soul, even in death. You know the legends of the Tomb of Ysgramor,” Vilkas said. Aela nodded.

            “There, the souls of the Harbingers will heed the call of northern steel,” she said. “We can’t even enter the tomb without Wuuthrad, and it’s in pieces, like it has been for a thousand years.”

            “And the dragons were just stories. And the elves once rule Skyrim.” Eorlund stepped into the Underforge, a huge, shining axe strapped to his back. “Just because something is, doesn’t mean it must be. The blade is a weapon. A tool. Tools are meant to be broken... and repaired.” 

            “Is that... did you repair the blade?” Vilkas asked, his voice unsteady. 

            “This is the first time I’ve had all the pieces, thanks to our Shield-Brother here.” Eorlund and the others turned to stare at K’avir. He stood straight, silver eyes flat in the torchlight. Eorlund pulled the axe from his back.

            “‘The flames of a hero can reforge the shattered.’ The flames of Kodlak shall fuel the rebirth of Wuuthrad, and now it will take you to meet him once more.” He turned to K’avir. “As the one who bore the fragments, I think you should be the one to carry Wuuthrad into battle.” He held out the axe, and after a moment, K’avir took it. Eorlund turned and began to walk toward the exit, pausing briefly to send a piercing look over his shoulder.

            “The rest of you, prepare to journey to the Tomb of Ysgramor. For Kodlak.” The stone rolled shut behind him a moment later.

            Rorin sighed deeply.

            “I’m not going to accompany you tonight,” he said, yawning. “I’m sorry.”

            “What do you mean you’re not going to accompany us?” Vilkas growled, baring his teeth. Rorin snorted and wrinkled his nose, letting just the tips of his canines show.

            “I mean, I’m exhausted and I’m not coming with you.” He looked up at K’avir. “Give my regards to Kodlak, and tell him... I’m sorry.” K’avir looked down, his eyes swirling into deep pools again. 

            “I will,” he whispered. 

            “Why aren’t you coming with us?” Vilkas sneered. “Trying to catch up on your beauty sleep?” Rorin snarled at him, frustrated and tired beyond decency. 

            “I’m not going to come with you because since I left on the twenty-fifth, I’ve climbed over the Jerall mountains and crossed into Cyrodiil to pay respects to my dead parents on the anniversary of the day my father was murdered, cremated the body of my mother and said goodbye to her spirit, climbed back over the mountains, and I was busy all of yesterday and today trying to pick myself up from an accidental drinking game with a Daedric Prince that took me all over the southwest of Skyrim in one night. I’ve barely slept the entire time. So yes,” he said, flipping his dirty, matted hair, “I need to catch up on my beauty sleep.” Vilkas, Farkas, and Aela were all gaping at him, speechless at his unusual divulgence of personal information. Even K’avir was staring at him with wide eyes. Rorin sighed and stomped out of the Underforge, grumbling to himself about wanting a bath. K’avir caught him before he entered Jorrvaskr, and the smell of wildflowers tickled his nose.

            “I, um...” K’avir rasped, suddenly looking embarrassed. He cleared his throat, and let go of Rorin’s arm. “Are you alright?” He asked in a whisper. Rorin met his eyes, startled by the sudden depth in his gaze. 

            “No, but I’ll feel better after a bath and a solid night’s sleep,” he answered. K’avir blinked down at him for a moment, then reached long, scar-covered fingers out to tug gently on a free lock of his hair. The gesture seemed almost intimate to Rorin, who promptly felt his face flush. He cursed his skin for being so prone to blushing and hoped that the darkness would hide the rising pink in his cheeks. K’avir pulled his hand back and smiled slightly.

            “Okay then, sleep well,  _sivaasi_ ,” he murmured. Rorin nodded. He gulped, then shook himself. Why was he embarrassed?

            “Be safe,” he called softly as K’avir walked down the stairs away from Jorrvaskr. The tall man grinned over his shoulder, silver eyes glittering dangerously, then disappeared into the darkness. Rorin shivered, almost feeling sorry for anyone or anything unfortunate enough to cross K’avir’s path that night. Dismissing the feeling, he entered Jorrvaskr, mind set on a bath.

 

            In his dream, Rorin stood with Kodlak in a thickly-wooded forest. In the distance, he heard the yipping of a pack of wolves. The sounds filled him with the urge to change and run to them, to join their hunt, and he had already taken a few steps forward when Kodlak grabbed his shoulder. 

            “Wait,” he said, his voice echoing strangely. Rorin turned to him, aching to feel the wind through his fur and the ground beneath his feet. Kodlak’s eyes were pale blue, shining with triumph. Rorin stared as he began to fade. 

            “Us Nords belong in Sovngarde, child. I hope I will see you there, when your time comes.” Over the old man’s fading shoulder, Rorin caught a glimpse of a golden hall, filled with tables that were laden with food and kegs of mead. As Kodlak vanished, so did the image behind him. Rorin felt a strange longing for the peace of the golden hall warring with his need to join the hunt.

           A dark shadow fell over him. As he moved to face the shadow’s caster, the urge to change became overpowering. He looked up into blazing red eyes set deep in a stag’s head. The stag’s thick neck transitioned into a man’s muscled shoulders and torso, and one of the creature’s hands grasped a bow. Rorin howled in agony and fear as he realized that the creature was the Daedric Prince Hircine, and the change took control of his body and mind. 

 

            Farkas pulled open the door in time to see Rorin roll off his bed with a resounding thump, pulling all the furs onto the floor. Stifling a snort of laughter, he walked over to the groaning pile of furs and prodded it with a booted toe.

“We just got back from Ysgramor tomb,” he said, picking a piece of spider web from his armor and hastily flicking it away. “I can’t believe it took us all night.” Kneeling down, he pulled a pelt off Rorin’s head, making his hair stand up in a glowing halo of static.

            “But Kodlak is free now, and with his soul cleansed, his soul made the journey to Sovngarde, or at least K’avir said that’s what happened.” He grinned, face lined with tiredness, but his steely eyes were alight with hope and excitement. “That man fights like a true beast.” Rorin moaned and tried to cover himself in furs once more. 

            “Hey, wait, listen to me for a moment,” Farkas said, pulling the furs away again. Rorin glared blearily at him, plainly wanting to go back to sleep. “K’avir offered to cure me of the beast blood. I am going to take up his offer, but I would like to run with you one final time. Would you be willing to go tonight?” Rorin nodded and retreated into the pile, grumbling. Farkas smiled and wandered from the room, humming to himself. 

 

            Rorin extracted himself from the pile of fur a few hours later, yawning profusely. Trying not to remember his dream from the previous night, he dressed and went upstairs to eat breakfast. It was late morning, so he was alone at the table. While he chewed, he thought about Farkas’ request, since the man hadn’t willingly taken beast form in a long time, aside from the one time in Dustman’s Cairn. He hadn’t seen the reason to resist the transformations like Kodlak had, since they gave him a freedom he loved. He didn’t care much about the power he gained from the change, but he loved the feeling of running over the moonlit land whenever he wanted. Shuddering at the sudden memory of the creature from his dream, he didn’t hear K’avir walk up behind him.

            “Boo,” K’avir whispered, leaning down so his breath tickled Rorin’s ear. Rorin jumped, choking on his mouthful of bread and cheese. K’avir chuckled and took the seat next to him, smelling of spices and wildflowers. Swallowing, Rorin glared at him.

            “That was uncalled for,” he said grumpily. 

            “I know,” K’avir hummed, taking an apple from the table and biting into it. His eyes sparkled with amusement as he looked at Rorin.

 _‘It was funny,’_  he signed. 

            “I don’t think so,” Rorin grumbled, then took another bite of food. “So what happened last night anyway?” K’avir’s eyes flattened and he looked out through the window. 

_‘We went through the tomb, fighting the spirits that lingered there, then eventually we came to the brazier in the middle of the final room. I found Kodlak’s spirit there, and he instructed me on what to do. I threw a head into the fire as Kodlak said to, and Kodlak’s beast self separated from his spirit. I killed the beast and Kodlak was freed from Hircine’s clutches. He spoke to me and... well, he named me Harbinger of the companions, then he moved on to Sovngarde.’_

            “Harbinger?” Rorin whispered, staring at the other man. K’avir nodded, eyes distant.

 _‘I really don’t know if I’m a good person to lead the companions.’_ Rorin shrugged and returned to his breakfast. 

            “Honestly, I think you’re a pretty good person to be Harbinger.” K’avir raised his eyebrows. “Well, Vilkas is too hot-tempered, Farkas doesn’t like being in a position of power, Aela doesn’t think through her decisions and likes power too much, I don’t want to be tied to any place more than I need to be, and the others are only companions for glory or personal gain.” Rorin paused to take a bite of food and chew, thinking carefully. He swallowed.

            “You seem to think before you do things. You can fight better than any of the others. You don’t seem to be someone who is always looking for power, and you seem like the kind of person who will take care of the people who rely on you, even if you don’t exactly want to.” K’avir scratched his nose, apparently embarrassed.

 _‘I still don’t know,’_ he signed. Rorin snorted into his tankard. 

            “Well you’re the best choice out of all of us right now,” he said, standing up. “That aside, I have to go clean my armor.” K’avir pushed away from the table.

 _‘May I come with you?’_ He signed. Rorin paused.

            “If you promise not to start singing again,” he said, then continued down the stairs. K’avir smiled and followed him.

 


	11. Chapter 11

            Rorin scrubbed furiously at a splotch of dried blood on his breastplate while K’avir buffed one of Rorin’s gauntlets.

            “By the Nine,” Rorin cursed, “Why is armor so difficult to clean?”

 _‘Yet another reason I don’t wear it,’_ K’avir signed, face smug.

            “How can you afford to not wear armor? Don’t you get cut up all the time?” Rorin asked, setting his breastplate down and looking at the other man. K’avir glanced up from the gauntlet, silver eyes flat and shining.

            “I don’t get hurt,” he said. Rorin blinked, rubbed his eyes, and stared at the other man. Then a wry grin spread across his face.

            “You’re awfully cocky all of a sudden,” he said, wondering if he had misjudged the other man.

            “You misunderstand. I cannot get injured,” K’avir said, a slight crease in his brow. “I can hurt myself and a few god-made things can hurt me, but other than that nothing can cut me.” 

            Rorin frowned in disbelief.

            “Then where are all your scars from?” He asked, waving his hand toward K’avir’s fingers. K’avir picked up his hands and examined them for a moment, running his fingers over the white lines. 

            “It wasn’t always like this,” he said quietly. “When I was younger I could get hurt, and I did. A lot.” He traced a long pink line that ran up his wrist. “My mother was a hard teacher, and she insisted that I learn how to wield swords. She wasn’t exactly careful with me.” Rorin felt slightly sick, and he rubbed his own wrist.

            “Your mother gave you all those scars? Even the one on your arm?” He asked. K’avir chuckled.

            “No, of course not. I practiced sword fighting with all of my mother’s crew. I have scars from every single one of them. The burn scar on my arm is from a mage I slighted by accident.” He looked up, and Rorin was startled to see that his pupils had become slits. 

            “It wasn’t just that, though,” K’avir continued, voice rasping. “With my mother being who she was... I got kidnapped a few times, and they tried to torture me to get to her.” He coughed, then lifted his hands to sign. _‘_ _She didn’t care much, obviously. Eventually, I either managed to escape or they let me go. That’s where these are from.’_ The Redguard straightened his legs and showed Rorin the shiny pink stripes crisscrossing his soles. Rorin covered his mouth, feeling his stomach squirm in discomfort. He’d seen blood, dismemberment, and men turn into vicious beasts, but the idea of torture still made him feel sick. Trying to swallow the bile at the back of his throat, he looked at K’avir again. The man was watching him curiously, his eyes back to normal.   Rorin mouthed soundlessly for a moment.

            “I’m sorry,” he finally whispered. K’avir shook his head. 

 _‘You can’t change the past,’_ he signed, a gentle smile pulling at his mouth. _‘_ _The scars don’t even bother me anymore.’_

            Rorin wiped thoughtfully at a streak on the glossy metal in his hands.

            “Who was your mother, anyway?” Rorin asked curiously. K’avir frowned. 

 _‘Are you asking me to tell you my whole life story now?’_ He signed, cocking an eyebrow.

            “Only if you want to,” Rorin mumbled. “I mean, no one knows anything about you, since you don’t talk much.” The corners of K’avir’s mouth quirked. 

 _‘Very funny.’_ He sighed.  _‘_ _Alright, I don’t see why not.’_ Setting the gauntlet onto the table next to him, he cracked his knuckles, and began to sign. 

_‘My mother was born to a pair of bandits in south Hammerfell, and she was weaned on thievery and murder. She followed in her parents footsteps until they were killed in a raid, then she took to the seas and headed south. She was about sixteen when she left Hammerfell. Five years later, though coercion, violence, and bribery, she had become the captain of an infamous pirate ship that made port on the island of Stros M’kai. She met my father in Saintsport during negotiations and trading with the local pirates. They stayed together for a few weeks, then he left to pursue a career as a blacksmith. I’m not sure where he ended up, he may have drowned at sea. Mother doesn’t even know._

_‘Anyway, nine months later, while below deck during a massive thunderstorm, she gave birth to me. When she figured out that I couldn’t learn or speak the common languages, she taught me and her entire crew sign language. I guess she cared about me enough to do that. She raised me on the ship, teaching me sword fighting, unarmed combat, all sorts of other things. I learned how to pick locks and pockets, trade and haggle, and plenty of sea-faring skills, although I can’t do much with those here. I learned magic on my own, since Redguards don’t exactly like magic much. I learned restoration first, to cope with all the injuries I got while sparring with my mother and her crew. Then I learned a little from each of the other schools of magic in turn. Mother found out about the restoration magic pretty quickly, since my cuts seemed to heal themselves overnight, but she allowed me to continue my learning, provided I heal her crew’s injuries after any battles. I lived on the ship for most of my childhood, leaving only occasionally to buy and trade goods at the ports with my mother. I had to sneak off to get my tattoo when we were docked in Hammerfell._

_‘The day I turned eighteen, I woke to find that my eyes had turned from light gray to silver. During my practice with the crew that day, I noticed that swords and daggers seemed to glance off my skin instead of cutting me as they usually did. Mother didn’t notice the change in my eyes for an entire week. When she did, she accused me of using magic to change my appearance. I told her I had no idea how it had happened and that I had nothing to do with it. ‘It’s unnatural,’ she said to me, ‘People will think ye’ve been cursed.’ Despite that, she let me stay on the ship. However, when she discovered that I couldn’t be injured anymore, she told me it was time for me to find my way in the world. I think she just wanted me gone. The crew was scared of my eyes, and pirates are a superstitious lot._

_‘As soon as I found transportation, I left Stros M’kai. Something was calling me, and I couldn’t fight the urge. I traveled east through Hammerfell, stopping in towns and cities to make money and buy food. I found that I needed to eat and drink much less than before, and I could travel for longer in harsher conditions. I took to walking barefoot, since I liked to be able to feel the ground, and the heat of the desert sands didn’t bother me at all. After two years of moving from place to place through Hammerfell, I found myself crossing the border into Cyrodiil. I didn’t know why, but I felt called to the place. I lived there for about four years, working in the Imperial city. I did odd jobs, apprenticed with the Mages Guild, and even worked a little with the Thieves Guild there. I did what I could, only dealing with those people who knew sign language. I was lucky, since most people in the Imperial city knew some sign. After those four years, I felt called to move on, and I journeyed north, toward Skyrim. As I was crossing the border into Skyrim, I was captured by Imperial soldiers and carted off to be executed. I managed to escape, since a giant black dragon attacked the city, and I spent several days wandering around in the wilds before I arrived in Whiterun and decided to join the companions.’_

            Rorin sat in stunned silence until he could find his voice.

            “That was a lot of information. Wait, did you say a dragon?!” K’avir nodded. Rorin absently ran a hand through his hair.

            “You mean they’re actually back? I thought that was just a story someone made up to cover a massive bandit raid.” 

_‘Well that one was quite real, and very large. After I escaped, I came here to warn the Jarl, and I met Aela and Farkas on the road. They told me about the companions, and after I spoke with the Jarl, I came down here to talk to Kodlak.’_

            “If there’s one, there’s more. I wonder where they’re hiding,” Rorin mused. 

 _‘The Jarl said that he would send for me if anything came up,’_ K’avir signed. He appeared to be entirely unimpressed with the fact that he was on speaking terms with the Jarl. Reaching over, he picked the gauntlet up off the table.

            Rorin’s eyes followed his movements as he lifted the gauntlet again and began to pick dirt from the creases where the metal overlapped. 

            “How is it possible for you to not get injured?” Rorin asked. “Everyone gets hurt at some point or another. You’re not just spinning some tale to impress me, right?” K’avir shrugged.

 _‘No, and I’m not entirely sure how it happens,’_ he signed. _‘Li_ _ke I said, swords and such just bounce off my skin. You can try if you’d like. When I try, I just get cut again.’_ He offered the hilt of his dagger to Rorin, who stared at him as if he had just grown an extra head. 

            “You’re crazy,” Rorin said. K’avir grinned.

 _‘I’m entirely serious. Try it,’_ he signed. Rorin hesitated, then took the dagger, testing the edge on the tip of a finger. 

            “Ouch! Okay fine, I’ll try it, but don’t get angry if it hurts,” Rorin muttered. K’avir grinned even wider, holding out his hand, and Rorin took it. For a moment, he admired the stark contrast between the paleness of his fingers and the dark of K’avir’s skin, then he blinked and lifted the dagger. Wincing, he pressed the sharp edge to K’avir’s palm. There was a grating noise, and the dagger slid across the skin, leaving a thin silver line. After a moment, the line disappeared. Rorin gaped, clutching at K’avir’s hand, then looked up into his face. 

            “You were serious?!” He whispered. K’avir laughed, the sound catching in his throat. He coughed again.

            “I did tell you,” he wheezed. “You can try to see what it is if you want, it won’t hurt me.” Rorin looked at him, then down at his palm. He gently attempted to scrape away the skin there, catching glimpses of something silver underneath as the skin reformed. 

            “This is extremely unnerving, and a bit gross,” Rorin said as he tried to pry away a flap of skin. As he did, he saw that the silver glitter underneath was made up of tiny overlapping scales. Distracted, he let go of the flap and it sealed itself back over the silver. 

 _‘That felt weird,’_ K’avir signed. 

            “There’s scales under your skin,” Rorin said wonderingly. “Honestly, my world is being turned upside down right now.” He sat down on the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I guess I’ve just been so accustomed to lycanthropy that I thought it was normal, and that nothing else that was unbelievable actually existed. I thought that nothing would ever surprise me or catch me of guard when I could turn into a beast.” He snorted in disgust. “I should’ve remembered, I saw those scales around your eyes in Dustman’s Cairn, you know, right after you... shouted.” K’avir looked at him, silver eyes unreadable. Rorin flopped back onto his bed, suddenly exhausted. 

            “Maybe you’re a dream,” Rorin said sleepily, looking over at K’avir out of the corner of his eye. “A tall, dark, handsome...” he yawned, “...Complicated, dangerous dream that smells... like wildflowers...” He yawned again and closed his eyes. 

            K’avir stared at the sleeping man, then set the clean gauntlet next to its twin and stood up. 

            “Looks like that night with Sanguine really took a toll on you,  _sivaasi_ ,” he croaked. “Rest up, I heard you have plans for tonight, and you wouldn’t want to miss that.” He drew a bottle from thin air and popped the cork. The strong sugary scent of rum floated out of the bottle, causing Rorin to sniff loudly and roll over. Smiling, K’avir took a gulp from the bottle and wandered out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for intense backstories!
> 
> Stros M'kai exports rum, and K'avir keeps some with him for when he wants something other than ale or mead.


	12. Chapter 12

            Several hours later, Farkas shook Rorin awake.

            “Have you decided that you’re not coming after all?” He inquired. Rorin sat up and stretched.

            “Shut up, I’ll be upstairs in a minute,” Rorin huffed. Farkas gave a good natured grunt and left the room, muttering to himself. 

            As he dressed, Rorin thought about everything that K’avir had told him. The whole interaction seemed like a weird hallucination, and Rorin still couldn’t quite believe what had happened. He pulled on his boots and buckled up his armor, then left his room. 

Farkas stood by the front door, eyes sparkling with badly contained excitement. He grinned as Rorin approached, and pushed the door open. 

            The chilly air nipped the end of Rorin’s nose and he took a deep breath, reveling in the scent of the night. He heard Farkas doing the same thing next to him and chuckled, feeling lighthearted for the first time in several days. They jogged through the streets, joking and pushing each other, until they reached the front gate. 

            “Ladies first,” Rorin said, bowing deeply and holding the gate open. Farkas faked a swoon, then ran past Rorin, hooting gleefully. 

            “Race you to the fork in the road!” He yelled, and took off at a gallop. Rorin chased after him, enjoying the feeling of the icy wind gusting into his face. He tackled Farkas just as they reached the fork in the road, tumbling gently into the dead grass. They lay on the ground, laughing until they could barely breathe, then Rorin stood and pulled Farkas to his feet. With an unspoken agreement, they walked farther away from the road, then paused, listening for any approaching enemies or guards. After they were sure that no one was nearby, they clasped hands briefly, and stepped apart. 

            This time, the change was different. Rorin felt his own pain mix with Farkas’ as their bodies contorted, bones cracking and tendons stretching. Their skin prickled as fur sprouted all over their bodies. Long snouts quested in the air while pointed ears twitched back and forth, catching the slightest sounds. 

            As one, the pair pointed their noses at the moons and howled, the eerie sound rippling through the chilled air. Rorin dropped to all fours and snapped playfully, then began to run west, Farkas close at his heels. He felt his own wild pleasure at the sensation of the ground under his feet mix with the excitement pounding in Farkas’ heart. They ran into the night, following the western stars.

 

            A blade of grass tickling his cheek brought Farkas to consciousness. He groaned and tried to sit up, discovering that a dead weight on his chest kept him lying down. 

            “Ugh, Rorin, get your legs off me,” he complained, pushing at the offending limbs. Rorin mumbled something and rolled over. After he managed to extract himself from Rorin’s dead weight, he stood, stretching and cracking his back. 

            “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered, attempting to touch his toes. 

            “But you’re only 35,” Rorin mumbled, then he sat bolt upright.

            “Do you smell that?” He asked, lifting his face to the breeze. Farkas glanced at him, then looked around, surveying their surroundings. His neck cricked uncomfortably, and he rubbed it with a grimy hand.

            “How did we end up here? We’re near Rorikstead,” he said to himself. He watched as Rorin hauled himself to his feet. The expression on the younger man’s face disturbed him. 

            “Are you alright?” He asked, scratching his nose distractedly. Rorin didn’t answer. When Farkas looked over at him, his eyes were wide and glazed, pupils like tiny dots of ink. 

            “Rorin?” Farkas waved his hand in front of Rorin’s face, but the other man pushed his hand away, still staring into the distance. As Farkas watched, Rorin’s face slowly twisted into a snarl, lips pulling back to reveal pointed teeth. 

            “What’s going on?” Farkas snapped, taking a step back. He followed Rorin’s stare and gulped. 

            “Ysmir’s beard, why now?” He groaned. Two men wearing gray-green robes with tan hoods walked along the road toward them. He knew who they were, and could’ve recognized them from much farther away.

            Snapping sounds alerted him to the immediate problem. He jumped back from Rorin as a feral growl ripped from between the man’s elongating teeth.

            “Not here!” Farkas hissed nervously. “Not in front of them, come on...” He watched helplessly as Rorin’s body twisted and grew, lengthening and sprouting fur. 

            “By Y’smir’s scarred left buttock, I’m going to smack him when we get back to Jorrvaskr,” Farkas growled. Ignoring this comment, the white werewolf shook itself and howled, then bounded forward. One of the approaching men pointed and yelled, the other drew a short sword from his belt, an expression of mixed anger and fear on his face. 

            Farkas shook his head. Those men didn’t stand half a chance against an infuriated werewolf. He sighed and watched as Rorin took a swipe at the nearest man, sending him flying into a rocky bluff. The other man swung his sword toward Rorin’s chest, but he knocked it away with a clawed hand. They grappled, the man flailing wildly, trying to wound Rorin, but Rorin was too quick for him. Huge, clawed hands reached out and grabbed the man around the throat. Farkas winced and looked away as Rorin began to pull the man apart, spraying blood and gore all over the road. The man lying by the rocky bluff sat up, then let out a piercing scream. Rorin was upon him in moments, ripping with claws and teeth. Blood spattered the ground, staining the rocks and dripping from Rorin’s white fur.

            When both men were dead, Rorin stood, panting and wild eyed. He shuddered and shrank, fur disappearing swiftly, then he dropped to his knees. Farkas walked over to him, unsure of what to do. When he touched Rorin’s shoulder, he felt shudders running through the other man.

            “Rorin?” Farkas shook him gently, but got no response. He tilted Rorin’s head up to look at his face, and saw that his eyes were glassy, pupils hugely dilated. His skin was chalk white with a gray tinge. As Farkas watched, he mumbled incoherently and a bit of foam bubbled at the corner of his mouth. 

            He walked swiftly to where the short sword had landed and picked it up, sniffing the blade. Stomach knotting, he dropped the sword and rummaged in his pockets, pulling out a small red bottle. He dropped to his knees and pulled the cork from the bottle, raising to Rorin’s lips. The liquid dripped into Rorin’s mouth.

            After a minute, Farkas slung Rorin over his shoulder and stood. Only the pounding of his heart against his ribcage betrayed his panic as he began to jog toward Whiterun.

 

            Panting and sweat-soaked, Farkas shoved the front door of Jorrvaskr until it creaked open. He barreled into the mail hall and staggered down the stairs, then pushed into Rorin’s bedroom and gently lowered Rorin’s limp, blood covered body onto the bed. 

            “K’avir,” he wheezed, leaning out into the hallway. “Are you there?” K’avir stepped out of his room, stretching. 

 _‘What’s going on?’_ He signed. 

            “Rorin’s been poisoned.” Farkas noticed with detached interest that at his words, K’avir’s expression had twisted, eyes wide and glittering as he pushed by, intent upon the figure in the bed. Rorin’s skin was waxy with a tinge of gray, his eyes glazed and staring. He was barely breathing. The Redguard raised his hands over Rorin’s form, and a steady, golden light gathered around his palms. After a moment’s hesitation, he bent and brought his hands down until his fingertips could brush lightly over Rorin’s face and chest. The healing light spread from every point he touched. Farkas leaned against the wall and watched, fascinated, as a deep cut on Rorin’s face disappeared, barely leaving a scar. 

            When K’avir took his hands away, Rorin’s wounds had healed and the color was returning to his skin. As Farkas watched, he took a deep breath and rolled over, eyes closing. 

K’avir turned to Farkas. Something in the Redguard’s expression unnerved Farkas, but he couldn’t quite tell what it was.

 _‘What happened?’_ K’avir signed, the edges of his mouth tight.  _’That was a dangerous poison, even though it was poorly made. It was created to have that specific stunning effect on werewolves, vampires, and Daedra, basically anything with a dark nature. Who were you fighting?’_

            Farkas sighed, feeling the beginnings of exhaustion creep into his mind.

            “We encountered two Vigilants of Stendarr. When he saw them, Rorin went mad and changed, then attacked. He killed them both before the poison took effect.” He rubbed his aching shoulder and continued. “I’ve only been with him once before when he did this, and it was a couple of years ago. It doesn’t happen often, at least as far as I’m aware, and only when he sees Vigilants of Stendarr. The first time it happened I didn’t ask him why, and it was pretty obvious that he didn’t want to talk about it.” 

 _‘Well, I won’t ask him then. He will tell us when he wants to. Now he just needs to sleep, and I think you might need the same thing.”_ K’avir made a shooing motion with his hands and Farkas took the hint. Grinning with relief, he wandered off to take a nap.

            K’avir stood beside the bed, and took a deep breath. Exhaling, he calmed the irritation and worry that jangled beneath his skin, and took another deep breath. As the unbidden emotions ebbed away, confusion took their place. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten so upset, especially not over a person. He had been minding his own business in his room when Farkas had called him, and something icy had seized his spine at the man’s words.

            Shaking his head, he scowled. Where had this strange sentimentality come from? He used to be able to go from place to place easily without making any connections. He had lived in the Imperial City for two years without making any friends, and wasn’t sure how he felt about making friends in this cold place. 

            Rubbing his hands over his face, he considered getting his war paint tattooed for what felt like the hundredth time, then sighed and began to remove Rorin’s armor, piece by piece. The man was wearing clothes underneath, and would sleep more comfortably without the metal digging into his back. When the armor was off, K’avir stood and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him. 

            He would wait for Farkas to wake up, then they would travel to Ysgramor’s Tomb together as they had planned. His bare feet padded on the stone floor as he made his way upstairs. 

Vilkas was hacking away at a practice dummy in the training yard, but he paused as K’avir approached. Brushing strands of hair out of his steely eyes, he regarded the taller man cautiously. 

 _‘I suppose you know that Farkas and I are going to Ysgramor’s Tomb this evening,’_ K’avir signed.A crease appeared between Vilkas’ heavy eyebrows. 

            “Is that an invitation? Or are you just bragging?” His voice was bitter; he must’ve still been angry about Farkas’ decision to make the change the night before. K’avir raised an eyebrow. 

 _‘You could call it an invitation, if you want to be an ass about it. Come with us,’_ K’avir signed, _’And we will rid you of the beast blood.’_ An expression of mixed relief and chagrin spread over Vilkas’ face, and he nodded. 

            “Let me know when you’re leaving,” he grunted, and turned back to the training dummy. 

 

 

_Brynjolf tipped his head back and drained his tankard, then brought it down on the counter with a loud clunk._

_“Damnit,” he muttered, running a hand through his russet colored hair._

_“Still moping about the one that got away?” A voice inquired. A beautiful, ivory-skinned woman settled onto the seat next to him with cat-like grace. Her red lips curved as she watched him, long nails tapping against the leg of her stool. Brynjolf barely spared her a glance._

_“He just... jumped over my head. With agility like that... well, he could be_ incredible _at what we do. We need new blood. He could be the thing that tips the scales in our favor. I’m beginning to think that Delvin is right about the curse...”_

_“Ugh, he’s just a superstitious old fart,” Vex said, waving her hand. Delvin, who was walking by, huffed angrily. Brynjolf grinned despite himself, but the expression disappeared as he thought about his dilemma again._

_“Usually, I would think the same thing,” he began._

_“Ass,” Delvin growled from behind him. Brynjolf smirked before continuing. “But our luck has been rotten at every turn. Something is going on, and I intend to find out what. Next time I see that man, I’ll recruit him. I have to.” He stared moodily into his empty tankard. “I have to...”_

_Brynjolf didn’t see the woman lounging against the wall. She sipped from a bottle of wine and watched him through slanted, blood-red eyes. Her dark gray skin blended perfectly with the shadows, choppy black hair shining in the dim light. The accents on her armor glowed a faint red that pulsed with her heartbeat. She sneered, baring sharp teeth, and took another drink from the bottle. A man walked by without even looking at her. Sighing with pleasure, she stood and stretched luxuriously, then made a few complex signs with her fingers before wandering over to the russet-haired man._

_“I couldn’t help but notice that you seem to be in a bit of a pickle,” she purred, placing a slim, gauntlet-covered hand on Brynjolf’s shoulder. He jumped and turned to look up at her with his startlingly green eyes. A languid smile spread across his mouth._

_“Well, lass, I’m not sure how you got in here without anyone seeing you, especially wearing armor like that, but consider yourself hired. We need skills like yours at the moment.” The Dunmer woman hummed and slid onto the seat that Vex hadn’t taken. She sipped from the bottle of wine that appeared in her hand and gazed at him from beneath lowered lashes._

_“Call me lass again, and we have a deal.”_

 

 

            Rorin opened his eyes, feeling stiff as a board. Moaning, he sat up and put his face in his hands, wishing his head would stop pounding. He could barely remember anything after he and Farkas had changed, but he was covered with dried blood and he felt like death. 

            Pushing himself gingerly to his feet, he inhaled, and the scent of blood, anger, and sadness filled his nostrils. Torches flashed before his eyes and yells echoed in his ears, and he could hear a man screaming as if he was being torn apart. 

            He lurched for the door and shoved it open, then staggered into the hallway and up the stairs. The few Companions in the main hall stared as he pushed through the back door and slumped onto the stairs of the back porch. His stomach rolled and he retched, bile rising in the back of his throat. 

            A pottery mug of tea was gently pushed into his hands. He looked up into the worn and lined face of Tilma. She smiled, the skin around her eyes crinkling, and patted the top of his head. Without saying a word, she tottered back into Jorrvaskr, letting the door swung shut behind her. Rorin sipped the tea, feeling the soothing herbs calm his stomach. 

            A few weak rays of sunlight broke through the thick clouds. The tea and the chill in the air brought Rorin to his senses. He took a deep breath, letting the mug warm his hands. A breeze ruffled his loose hair, creating a soft white halo around his head. 

            Looking up into the sky, Rorin heard a faint roar and saw a tiny speck flying in circles above the city. It was so high up that Rorin couldn’t quite tell what it was, but it didn’t look like a bird. He set the mug down and stood, a hand reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. 

            A familiar scent reached his nose. He instinctively sniffed, and caught the smell of spices and wildflowers, and the new aroma of expensive leather. He turned and saw K’avir standing beside him. The man was dressed in an outfit that Rorin didn’t recognize. He wore a sleeveless chainmail jerkin over a dark red tunic, with a thick leather belt around his waist. His pants were soft brown wool, with leather guards sewn into the cloth, and his boots were made of costly, deep brown leather. A dark red, tattered scarf wound loosely around his neck. He had exchanged his gold hoop earrings for ruby drops that swung and glittered with every movement. The effect was striking.

            K’avir’s silver eyes were directed upward, toward the circling speck, but as Rorin watched, the man’s gaze slid down to rest on his face. His breath hitched slightly in his chest as he stared into deep, swirling silver.

            “Farkas and Vilkas are free from the beast blood,” K’avir murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Rorin’s ear. “I take it you are still thinking on the matter.” Rorin shivered a little, but nodded. K’avir’s deep, rough voice sent goosebumps down his arms. He rubbed his hands over his chilled skin, looking away from the intense gaze.

            “I want to keep the blood, at least for a bit longer,” he said, still avoiding K’avir’s eyes. K’avir sighed and looked back up into the sky.

            “There’s something I need to do,” he said softly, “Something I’ve been putting off for weeks. I’ll be gone for some time, probably months. Vilkas and Farkas will deal with Companions matters while I’m away.” 

            “Will you come back eventually?” Rorin asked, surprised at the almost petulant note in his own voice. Gentle, callused fingers took his chin and tilted his face upward. K’avir smiled into Rorin’s eyes, teeth white against his dark skin. Rorin gulped. His skin flushed as K’avir ran fingertips along his jawline, then stepped back. 

            “Of course. Stay safe,  _sivaasi_ ,” he said, then turned and walked away. Rorin touched his jaw, feeling heat rising in his cheeks. Then, with thoughts whirling around inside his mind, he made his way back inside, the trauma of the previous day all but forgotten.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet more of Rorin's story appears.
> 
> Wake up and smell the emotions, K'avir... 
> 
>  
> 
> After however many years it's been since I started playing Skyrim, I am still completely smitten with Brynjolf, and my first Dragonborn was a dark elf who wore Daedric armor. She isn't a Dragonborn in this fic, but she can still hide herself from everyone at will, and she's also totally enamored by Brynjolf.


	13. Chapter 13

            The days flew past as the air became colder. A thin layer of snow blanketed Whiterun as Frost Fall turned to Sun’s Dusk. Rorin worked jobs with Farkas, even occasionally with Vilkas, who had mellowed considerably since he had been cured of the beast blood. He didn’t have much time during his days to think about K’avir, but by Morning Star, rumors had begun to spread. Rorin heard talk of the return of the Dragonborn, a man who breathed fire and fought like a demon. A man who could walk into a crypt that crawled with draugr and walk back out without so much as a scratch. A man who was never injured.

            After hearing the news and seeing the evidence that a dragon had attacked the Western Watchtower and K’avir had killed the monster and absorbed its soul, Rorin believed almost everything he heard. He himself had been in one of the lookouts on the west wall when the attack had happened. He had watched with panic writhing in his stomach as the battle raged, then had stared with disbelief as the dragon’s flesh had gone up in flames, golden light spilling from the fire to swirl in a brilliant tornado around K’avir’s body. A moment later, he had seen the Redguard look up and shout, a visible force emanating from his mouth. The soldiers had gathered around the man and were arguing heatedly, gesturing in all directions. Only minutes after the battle with the dragon had ended, a sound had shaken the earth beneath his feet, and he had known, as did all Nords, what that sound had meant. The Dragonborn had returned.

 

            One evening toward the end of First Seed, Rorin was sitting in the Bannered Mare and a traveling Bard had begun to sing a song about how the Last Dragonborn had finally vanquished Alduin, the World-Eater. Rorin had listened carefully, drinking a bottle of mead, and that night, he had dreamed of swirling silver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so time passes...
> 
> After this chapter the main quest will be finished, and they will be doing various other things.


	14. Chapter 14

            Rorin lay in a bed of soft grass and tiny white flowers while gentle morning sunlight warmed his naked skin. A single wolf lay beside him, legs twitching in a dream of chasing rabbits. He sighed with pleasure, attempting to work a knot from his mane of white hair. It had grown longer and wilder during the winter and he needed to get it cut. His beard was also getting unruly, despite the fact that Farkas had neatly braided along the sides and threaded silver beads onto the ends. One of the braids had managed to come undone during the night, and he had lost the bead along the way. He grinned sleepily, fingering the leftover bead. Farkas was becoming silly with the springtime. Well, sillier.

            Rorin stretched, feeling his sun-warmed muscles pull deliciously. The best part about spring mornings was that the sun wasn’t strong enough to hurt his eyes. He stared up into the sky, watching tiny clouds skitter across the blue expanse. He yawned, and his wolf companion did the same. Rolling over, he tangled fingers into the wolf’s soft fur and closed his eyes, inhaling the scents of the morning. He loved how the smell of dirt and grass mingled with the perfume of wildflowers and the wolf’s musk. As he breathed, he noticed that the smell of wildflowers slowly became stronger, then mingled with something spicy. He opened his eyes and blinked, sniffing the air. The scent was familiar, but Rorin couldn’t quite place it. When the smell of smoke began to mix with the other scents, he was almost sure of the source.

            A shadow blocked the sun, chilling his bare skin. He rolled onto his back and sat up, shading his eyes to see who had disturbed his peace. He looked up into a swirling silver gaze that nearly stopped his breath.

            “It’s been a while since I last saw you, _dii sivaas_ ,” a voice said. The sound was deep and warm, and it made Rorin shiver. K’avir grinned with amusement as he stared down at Rorin. “For a minute, I thought you were a patch of snow that hadn’t melted yet.”

            Rorin couldn’t help himself. He grinned back, feeling a weird jolt in his stomach. The jolt turned to a flood of heat as K’avir looked him slowly up and down.

            “If you are trying to become tan,” the man spoke carefully, his words still thickly accented, “I don’t think you’re getting anywhere.” Rorin snorted and scrambled to his feet, trying to subtly cover himself.

            “I don’t suppose you have an extra tunic or something,” he said, feeling the warmth in his stomach creep upward and spread over his face. K’avir chuckled and drew a large tunic from his carrying spell, handing it to Rorin. Rorin pulled it on, still blushing.

            “So why are you out here without clothes?” K’avir inquired, staring into Rorin’s face. Rorin’s blush deepened.

            “It’s, uh, well,” he stammered. K’avir reached out and tugged a lock of his hair, not helping him one bit. He swallowed.

            “It’s the springtime, y’know,” Rorin said with embarrassment, “The beast blood does weird stuff with our hormones and pheromones in the spring, especially since we’ve had it for so long.” He reached up and tied his hair back in a messy bun. K’avir’s silver eyes followed his movements, glittering in the sun. “I just felt like a naked change last night, and I ran around with this fellow here.” He gestured to the wolf, who had picked up his head to survey K’avir with suspicion. Seeing Rorin’s easy stance, the wolf dropped his head back down and sighed.

            Abruptly, K’avir reached forward and gripped Rorin’s chin, tilting his face toward the light. He turned Rorin’s head back and forth, a crease between his brows. Then just as quickly, he let go and stepped back.

            “I take back my previous statement, _sivaasi_ ,” he said, grinning broadly, “You have a sprinkling of freckles across your nose that wasn’t there before.” Rorin scowled.

            “You’ve gone silly too!” He exclaimed, willing away the warmth in his cheeks. K’avir just chuckled.

            “I’m headed to Whiterun, would you like to come with me?” He said. Rorin looked toward the city for a moment before responding.

            “Yeah, sure. I should probably get back soon.”

            Rorin watched K’avir from the corner of his eye as they walked. The man had exchanged his deep red tunic and wool pants for a sun-bleached green cotton shirt and un-dyed cotton pants that were rolled up a few times to show scarred ankles. His feet were bare. Gold hoops twinkled at his earlobes and the silver chain showed above the collar of his shirt. A large ruby set into a thick silver ring glinted on one of his fingers.

            “Why did you always wear those old prisoner’s clothes if you could’ve dressed like that?” Rorin asked without thinking, then clamped his mouth shut and blushed again. K’avir laughed, the sound warm and crackling like a fire.

            “Because I think I look more dangerous if I wear prisoner’s clothes. That’s what they put me in when they caught me as I was crossing the border into Skyrim for the first time.” K’avir wrinkled his nose. “They’ve started to smell like old blood and I can’t wash them enough to get rid of the stink, so I stopped wearing them, and I haven’t had the chance to find more that fit me. I wore them because people are easier to coerce when they’re afraid of you.” He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin, his eyes flat and shining. Then he shrugged. “They also leave you alone a lot more. I suppose that’s a downside to some people, but I dislike too much attention.”

            Rorin began to hum a ballad about the Dragonborn that he’d heard in the Bannered Mare around the middle of Sun’s Dawn. K’avir scowled down at him, silver eyes sharp. Rorin smirked.

            “You’ve been getting quite a lot of attention lately,” he said, chuckling at the expression of consternation that passed over K’avir’s face.

            “That doesn’t mean I like it very much,” K’avir said, voice scratching slightly. “I traveled and lived alone for six years, so I got used to being alone. When I moved around Hammerfell, being noticed wasn’t a good thing. If people noticed you, you’d probably be attacked and often killed.” He stared at Rorin, then looked down the road. “I still haven’t gotten used to it. Once people find out what I am...” he paused, and glanced at Rorin again. “I see you are taking this pretty well,” he said. Rorin met his eyes then looked away.

            “Well, I’ve had a few months to come to terms with the concept. I... I saw you fight at the Western Watchtower. It took me a little while to recover, but honestly,” he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, “Who am I to judge? You’re the Dragonborn, it’s not like you can change that. As long as I’m on your good side, I shouldn’t have any reason to be worried about who you are.” He smiled ruefully. “After all, I’m a werewolf, and that can be a pretty upsetting thing for even one’s best friend to find out.” K’avir tugged thoughtfully on one of his gold hoops.

            “You’re not scared?” He asked, eyes flat. Rorin fidgeted with the hem of his tunic before answering.

            “The Dragonborn is the stuff of legends,” he said quietly. “Only a few of them are recorded in history. Tiber Septim was a Dragonborn, and after he died, he became a Divine. But I wouldn’t say I’m afraid, exactly. You’ve been kind to me.” He blushed, muttering the last few words. K’avir looked down at him as they walked, silver eyes deepening and swirling. Rorin turned to him suddenly and looked him over, brows furrowed.

            “Why do you smell like wildflowers?” He asked. K’avir paused, then his mouth quirked. Reaching out, he gestured and pulled a handful of wildflowers out of thin air.

            “I like them,” he admitted, looking a little sheepish. “I pick them when I travel by myself, and I like the way they smell, so I keep a bunch of them in my carrying spell. The scent must leak out. I’m glad it’s only wildflowers that you can smell, and not the other things in the spell.” He plucked a small red flower from the bunch and reached out to tuck it behind Rorin’s ear. The other flowers disappeared from his palms.

            “I love spring,” K’avir hummed, stuffing his empty hands into his pockets. “Everything smells fresh and new, the flowers bloom, and everything seems to come alive again.”

            “You seem pretty comfortable speaking common now,” Rorin observed. K’avir looked down at him, and odd expression in his eyes.

            “I am with you, _sivaasi_ ,” he said, then pulled a pair of trousers from thin air. “Put these on so we don’t have to go in through the Underforge.” Rorin took the pants and tugged them on, noticing that they were much too long for him. He rolled up the cuffs so they wouldn’t drag, and continued walking.

            “What do you mean, with me?” He inquired. K’avir rubbed the tip of his nose, thinking.

            “Speaking common is easier for me when I am speaking to you,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t know why. Maybe it is because you made an effort to sign to me when I first met you, so now I can make more of an effort to speak to you.” Rorin mumbled something inaudible and waved his hands, feeling his cheeks heat up once more.

            They reached the front gate and it opened before them. The two guards on either side of the door straightened.

            “Hail, companion,” one said to Rorin, while the other saluted K’avir and said, “Whatever you need, Dragonborn. Just say the word.” The two men looked at each other, then stood at attention. K’avir nodded to the men, then walked through the open gate, Rorin following closely behind.

            “It’s simple enough to acknowledge a greeting,” K’avir murmured to Rorin as they walked up the street, “But people love a spectacle and will crowd around after a fight to gawp. I try to leave the scene as quickly as possible.” Rorin looked up at him and saw that his eyes were chilly and distant. “I don’t like the awe. When people are afraid of you, they stay away, but when people are in awe of you they crowd around just to get a look at you.” Rorin noticed several children stop their playing to stare as they passed. He pulled on the single braid in his beard, considering his next words.

            “But you’ve done extraordinary things. You traveled to Sovngarde and defeated the World-Eater himself, or at least that’s what the songs say. If it’s true, don’t you think that deserves some awe and respect?” He asked. K’avir exhaled through his long nose.

            “I appreciate the respect, but awe makes me nervous and rather uncomfortable. You’re not in awe of me, are you?” He looked down at Rorin. Rorin glanced up into his face and flushed. His eyes followed the pale pink scars that trailed over K’avir’s dark cheek, and he gulped.

            “I am, a little bit,” he confessed, looking back at the street. “It’s hard not to be. I was already a bit in awe of you after you shouted in Dustman’s Cairn.” He paused, then chuckled dryly. “Do you know how many years it takes to even begin to learn the Thu’um? They say that all mer and men, especially Nords, have some capacity to learn the Thu’um, but very few people actually pursue the training that’s needed.” A stray lock of hair had escaped his bun, so he tucked it back into place.

            “In any average man, understanding one shout could mean ten years of studying on the Throat of the World. Since I saw you read the word wall, and I didn’t think you had been studying with the Graybeards for a decade, I kinda figured that you weren’t exactly the average man.” The corner of K’avir’s mouth twitched. They reached the bottom of the stairs leading up to Jorrvaskr, and Rorin stopped.

            “They’re calling you the Last Dragonborn,” he said, looking down into his hands. “They say it was your destiny to destroy Alduin the World-Eater and save all of Mundus. How could one not be in awe of that? But...” Rorin took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, feeling his face heat up. “I can’t imagine what it feels like to have a destiny, especially such an important one. If you’ve lived a destiny like that, how do you find the desire to keep living afterward? Life must feel excruciatingly mundane now.”

            K’avir snorted and gave Rorin’s shoulder a push.

            “Is this new depth part of the springtime hormones too?” He inquired, beginning to climb the stairs.

            “New? It’s not new,” Rorin grumbled, and followed.

            The front door swung open before they could reach it, and Farkas bounded out, grinning hugely. He bounced down the stairs toward the two men and grabbed Rorin’s face with both hands.

            “One of your braids came undone!” He exclaimed, then leaned down and gave Rorin a quick, smacking kiss on the mouth. “I’ll have to re-do it later.” He turned to K’avir. “You’ve been gone for so long I’d almost forgotten what you look like! Are you taller now?” He laughed and patted K’avir on the shoulder, then stepped back.

            “What, no kiss for me?” K’avir murmured, his eyes twinkling wickedly. Farkas blinked, then grinned and reached up to yank K’avir’s face down to him. He kissed the man loudly, and pulled away with a faint line of white paint on his bottom lip.

            “Get a hold of yourself, brother dear.” Vilkas stood in the doorway, an uncharacteristically pleasant expression on his face. Farkas turned and stuck his tongue out at his twin.

            “Go drink some milk,” he retorted, and Vilkas chuckled. K’avir raised his eyebrows at the interaction, silver eyes wide.

            “He’s been much more tolerable lately,” Rorin told him, shrugging. “The change is really extraordinary.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

            Inside of Jorrvaskr, Rorin walked downstairs to find his own clothes, and K’avir settled in the main hall to talk to Vilkas and Farkas. While the others were discussing business, Rorin went into his room and stripped, then laid K’avir’s clothes on his bed. He stood for a moment, considering the garments and wondering if he should wash them before giving them back. As he thought, he pulled on his beard and yawned. Noticing that his skin felt hot, he picked up a spoon from his bedside table and looked at himself, gently touching his cheeks. Despite the mildness of the spring sun, his skin had burned.

            Cursing vividly, he dug around in one of his drawers for a jar of sunburn salve that he had bought from a Khajiit caravan. He opened the jar and sniffed, inhaling the scent of honey and desert plants. The concoction was cool against his skin as he spread a glob over the bridge of his nose, still cursing his paleness. He had paid extra for a mage to cast a restoration spell on the goop, and he could feel the healing magic sink into his burned cheeks. The door opened behind him while he was applying the stuff onto the most burned parts of his chest, and the aroma of wildflowers wafted into the room.

            “You’ve barely been back for half a day and this is the second time you’ve walked in on me while I’m naked,” he commented, not looking around.

            “Well, in my defense, you seem to be naked fairly often. How did you know it was me?” K’avir asked, sounding amused. Rorin snorted and continued to rub the honey mixture into his skin.

            “No one else walks in on me like that, usually they knock.”

            “Whoops,” K’avir said. “Next time I’ll remember.”

            “Eh, it doesn’t really matter. I think I’m used to it at this point. At least, mostly used to it.” Rorin turned to glare half-heartedly at him, massaging the bridge of his nose and trying to ignore the rising heat in his stomach. “What do you need, anyway?”

            K’avir stared at him, a crease between his eyebrows.

            “I could’ve healed that for you,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward Rorin’s sunburn. Rorin looked at the jar of goop in his hand.

            “I forgot you could do that. It’s fine though, this has some magic in it. Did you actually need something?”

            “I’m planning on traveling to Riften tomorrow,” K’avir replied. “Would you like to come with me? I’ve been thinking it might be nice to have a little companionship on the road,” he grinned at his own pun, “And I enjoyed traveling with you before.”

            Rorin paused to frown at the taller man.

            “I thought you preferred being alone,” he said, screwing the top back onto his jar.

            “Usually I do.” K’avir spoke in a matter-of-fact way, meeting Rorin’s suspicious gaze squarely. “But I’ve been feeling a little lonely on the road lately, and you are always entertaining. Plus, you won’t gawp at me all the time, and I need to practice my common.”

            “Practice, my ass,” Rorin grunted, turning to rummage in his drawers for some clothes. K’avir hid his grin behind a scarred hand while Rorin pulled on his garments. Grimacing, the Nord man straightened and looked K’avir in the eye.

            “It’s been a long time since I went to Riften. Alright, I’ll come with you.”

            K’avir smiled, his eyes swirling silver.

            “We’ll leave tomorrow morning. Bring your armor and weapons. I’ll bring food and anything else we need.” Rorin nodded, and K’avir left the room, shutting the door behind him. Sighing deeply, Rorin flopped onto his bed. He stared up at the ceiling, fingers tangled in his mane of hair, thinking hard and trying to ignore the squirming warmth in his stomach. The prospect of traveling to Riften with K’avir was exciting and a little frightening. It had been fine when he had run into K’avir on the way back from Markarth, but he had been exhausted and hungover, not perfectly sober and raging with spring hormones.

            He let out a wordless growl and sat up, swinging his feet off the bed.

            “Farkas,” he yelled down the hallway. “Get over here!” Farkas’ footsteps on the stairs were loud and fast.

            “Hey,” he panted, skidding into Rorin’s room.

            “Calm down,” Rorin said, pulling a piece of old cloth around his shoulders. “I want you to cut my hair, and I would like to keep both my ears in the process.” He offered the other man a pair of scissors and sat down in a chair. “Can you cut it so it falls just below my shoulders?”

            “Sure, hold still,” Farkas said, and began to cut. As the first lock of hair fell to the floor, Rorin sighed.

            “A septim for your thoughts, my friend?” Farkas asked. Rorin bit his lip.

            “I have mixed feelings about spring,” he said.

            “I know,” Farkas replied. “Could any of this be about mister tall, dark, and handsome?” Rorin jerked slightly and turned around to glare at Farkas. Farkas raised his eyebrows.

            “What? I saw you kissing Elrindir between Arcadia’s Cauldron and the Bannered Mare one night some years ago, and then there was that other time with that guard... so I kinda figured... y’know...” he grinned. “That Redguard is very attractive, and what with the spring hormones doing what they do...”

            “Oh, shut up,” Rorin grumbled, turning back around in his seat. “Don’t forget that a few years ago I caught you kissing Aela one afternoon then found you in Sinmir’s lap that evening.” Farkas laughed.

            “Guilty as charged,” he said, “But you’ve known that I like both men and women for a while, and I’ve known that you prefer men for a while now, so we’re even.”

            “That doesn’t mean I like to wear it embroidered into my clothes or carved into my armor,” Rorin said irritably, tugging the piece of cloth more tightly around his neck.

            “Don’t be such a grump,” Farkas scolded, tapping the top of his head. “It’s spring! Enjoy it while it lasts. So, does it have anything to do with him?”

            “Well, uh, yeah it does,” Rorin said, trying not to sound defensive. “He is absolutely unsettling, and- wait, make sure the door is shut.” Farkas checked the door, then walked back over to where Rorin sat.

            “Keep talking,” he said, picking up the scissors again.

            “He’s unsettling!” Rorin hissed. “Have you seen his eyes do that thing where they swirl like whirlpools?”

            “Nope. His eyes look like silver coins to me.”

            “Well, sometimes they swirl around and- you get my point. And not just that, he’s very unpredictable. He will be distant and cold one moment and then the next moment he’ll pull my hair or touch my face in a way that just feels... really personal, y’know? And he keeps walking in on me when I’m naked!”

            “His lips are nice and soft,” Farkas said, sounding dreamy.

            “You are not helping,” Rorin snapped. “Ysmir’s beard, Farkas, if you ask me a prying question you might as well listen to my answer!”

            Chortling with amusement, Farkas fluffed Rorin’s hair and brushed the last stray pieces away.

            “I was listening, I just love to nettle you during the spring, you get so embarrassed.”

            Rorin shook his head and pulled the cloth away from his neck, dropping hair onto the floor.

            “I still don’t know whether I should be embarrassed or not when he walks in on me, I mean, he’s seen me naked enough that it really shouldn’t be an issue at this point, but I am still a bit embarrassed about it.”

            “Don’t be silly, my friend, we’ve all seen you naked,” Farkas said, voice teasing. “It shouldn’t be a surprise for anyone.”

            Rorin jumped to his feet to cuff Farkas upside the head. Farkas ducked and threw the scissors into a corner before tackling Rorin to the floor. They tussled and laughed on the floor for a moment, then Rorin poked Farkas in a spot below his ribs and the bigger man let out a bark of laughter. He rolled away and lay face down on the floor, panting. Rorin sat up, still chuckling, then staggered to his feet. He paused to wipe his forehead, then offered his hand to Farkas.

            “I always forget how ridiculous you get in the spring,” Rorin said while Farkas caught his breath, then the taller man leaned down, kissed him on the tip of the nose, and ran from the room, howling with laughter.

            Rorin rubbed his nose, bemused, then went to retrieve the scissors from the corner of his room. Placing the scissors on his desk, he opened one of the drawers and pulled out a piece of flat steel that was polished until it gleamed, then hung it on the wall. He looked at himself in the metal, picked up the scissors, and began to work on his beard.

 

            K’avir had been sleeping restlessly for months. All the things he had seen and done weighed on his mind, and his beast blood reacted to the violent dreams, keeping him awake at night.

            As he lay in his bed, he stared up at the stone ceiling and wondered when he would get around to curing his lycanthropy. Every time he closed his eyes, flashes of blushing, alabaster skin appeared in his mind’s eye, and his beast blood growled with approval. Grumbling, he rolled over and threw his furs onto the floor. He couldn’t forget the image of a lean, naked, pale-skinned man reclining in the sun, surrounded by bright green grass.

            _“Sunvaar,”_ he snarled to himself, and got out of his bed. It must’ve been very early in the morning, since the sky was still dark when K’avir walked noiselessly out onto the front steps and paused, checking for any late-night wanderers. After a moment, he sprang up and landed on top of the flat lattice around the Gildergreen tree. Laying down, he stared up at the stars and sighed, feeling the cool night air play across his bare chest. He closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunvaar = beast (more negative connotations like monster or such)
> 
> Let me know if I have typos or anything plz


	16. Chapter 16

            Rorin wiped a smudge off his armor while he walked up the stairs, sword and axe clanking at his side. The set he wore was lighter than his winter armor, but he was still a bit warm.

            K’avir stood next to the front door, dressed in the same sun-bleached clothes from the day before, his curved swords strapped to his back. A half smile played across his mouth as he watched Rorin walk toward him.

            “Morning,” K’avir said, pushing open the door. Rorin grunted in response and stepped outside, pulling his hood up to hide his face from the sun. K’avir followed him and pulled the door shut, then they walked in silence down the stairs and onto the street. K’avir watched Rorin as they walked through the city gate. Sun played over a few escaping strands of the man’s white-blond hair, making them glow.

            They took a right at the fork in the road and continued for a while. Neither spoke to the other while they walked. As they passed the Honningbrew Meadery, K’avir began to hum. Rorin shot him a glare, but he just smiled amiably and continued despite Rorin’s expression. A few wolves joined them along the road to walk for a little way, then lope back into the wilds.

            They walked up for a while then began to descend. In the distance, they could see a set of towers on either side of the river, and as they drew closer, Rorin saw the stone bridge connecting the two structures.

            K’avir halted and sighed, turning to face Rorin.

            “This is Valtheim Towers,” he said, and Rorin nodded. He had been by the place many times. “I’m assuming you know that there are almost always bandits here,” K’avir continued, “Bullying a false toll from people who want to pass. Would you like to help me pick them off, or would you prefer to stay out of it?” Rorin thought for a moment.

            “Do you have a bow and some arrows? I’m a fair shot and I might be able to get one or two of them from the ground,” he said. K’avir nodded and drew an old, Dwarven-style bow from thin air. He handed it to Rorin with a handful of arrows, then pulled the scimitars from his back.

            “They have an archer on the top of the right tower, watch him and see if you can catch him off guard. Don’t worry about accidentally hitting me, I’ll be fine.” He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin and began to walk toward the towers. Rorin saw the bandit who was posted at the tower door stand and move out into the middle of the road, unsheathing a large battle axe. He watched K’avir stop as the man called out to him, demanding a toll.

            The bow felt good in his hand and he stepped off the road, trying to get a better angle for his shot. A feral war cry rang out, echoing against the cliffs, and Rorin saw K’avir cut down the bandit before running into the tower. Raising the bow, he fitted and arrow to the string, sighted, and loosed. A moment later, he heard an angry and surprised yell from on top of the closer tower. The arrow had struck its mark.

            K’avir ran out onto the bridge and charged an oncoming Khajiit, running him through. He shoved the body off the bridge and moved forward, catching the downward arc of another bandit’s broadsword between his crossed blades.

            _“FUS!”_ K’avir shouted, the force of his Thu’um throwing the yelling bandit out into open air. She fell with a scream and hit the river with a loud smack. Rorin winced, then watched K’avir disappear into the second tower. He heard screams and yells from inside, then K’avir appeared at the top of the structure. The Redguard leaned over the edge and waved cheekily at Rorin, then he jumped over the side. Rorin nearly gasped, but the man landed with a roll and hopped back onto his feet, perfectly fine. The last bandit stood, goggling as K’avir approached. She inhaled, then screeched and ran up the cliffs and into the woods. K’avir stared after her, then shrugged and jumped off the cliff, landing neatly beside the river. He bounded across the water and jogged back to Rorin, teeth flashing in a grin.

            “Don’t stand there with your mouth open,” K’avir said, reaching out to yank on a lock of Rorin’s hair. “Something might fly inside.”

            Rorin clamped his jaw shut and glared at the other man. K’avir merely chuckled and turned to continue along the road. His shirt and pants were free of bloodstains. Scowling, Rorin trailed after him, attempting valiantly to squash the mixture of amazement and heat welling up in his lower belly.

            They followed the road down a steep hill and alongside the river. Rorin caught something on the breeze and wrinkled his nose.

            “There’s a troll up ahead,” he said. K’avir nodded, focused on the trees to either side of the road. A moment later, the troll lumbered out into the open, and K’avir jumped toward it. It was dead before Rorin could do more than take a step forward. K’avir dragged the beast back into the woods.

            “Something will eat it,” he said, brows drawn together. “It certainly smells bad, though.”

           

            When they reached the turn for Darkwater Crossing, the sun was beginning to descend in the sky. K’avir halted and turned to look down at Rorin.

            “Would you object strongly to finding a place to sleep close by?” He asked, eyes serious. “Because there’s a hunter’s camp right on the hot springs just a little way northwest of here, and I love hot springs.” Rorin frowned, not sure if he was being sarcastic, but he shrugged.

            “I’m in no hurry. This is your errand anyway,” he said. K’avir grinned.

            “I hoped you’d say that.” He led Rorin off the road and began to weave through a small stand of trees. Once they had reached the other side, Rorin could see pools of blue-green water spread out before them, bubbling and steaming peacefully. A little further on, they reached the hunter’s camp.

            Two patchwork tents made of animal skins had been pitched next to a series of pools where a man and two women reclined, naked except for their underclothes. They called lazy greetings when they saw K’avir, and he walked over to talk to one of the women. Rorin stood back and rubbed his nose. The skin there was still a little sticky from the honey mixture.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fus = Force
> 
> Please leave me kudos if you like it


	17. Chapter 17

            K’avir finished talking to the hunter and walked back over to where Rorin was standing and staring off into the distance.

            “We can camp here, and I’ll keep watch tonight. I don’t really need to sleep very much anyway. You can take off your armor,” K’avir said, pulling his own shirt over his head, “There’s nothing dangerous close by, and I can defend us if something does wander up.” The sun glinted off his gold nipple ring, thoroughly distracting Rorin’s attention. A wave of heat swamped Rorin’s brain, and he gulped.

            “What?” He asked, trying his best not to goggle as K’avir shed his pants and straightened, wearing only a loincloth. Rorin’s eyes followed the lines of toned muscle that flexed under K’avir’s skin as he moved.

            “Get rid of that armor, before I come take it off for you,” K’avir said, then he slid into one of the pools and moaned, a long, drawn-out sound that sent a tingle down Rorin’s spine and almost had him bolting into the trees. Instead, against his better judgement, he began to undo his armor, setting the pieces carefully onto the ground where they wouldn’t be stepped on or kicked. While he undressed, his mind scrambled frantically, trying to gauge the situation. K’avir let out another tiny sound of pleasure, and Rorin looked over at him, noticing that K’avir’s gaze flicked quickly away from his own. He realized that K’avir must be affected by the beast blood’s spring hormones as well, and they were making him act a bit more oddly than usual. Rorin thought about how K’avir had been so distant and expressionless when he first arrived at Jorrvaskr and smiled wryly.

            Steam spiraled over the surface of the water when Rorin lowered himself into the pool next to K’avir, making sure not to accidentally touch the other man. Even with his extra care, his fingers brushed against K’avir’s forearm and a rush of heat that was not from the water flooded up his arm. He blushed furiously and sat on his hands, attempting to ignore the familiar tingle of desire has begun to creep over his skin.

 

            _This is not a good time for this, why is this happening right now..._

 

            Occasionally, during springtime, the beast blood hormones would spike for a few hours, causing restlessness and an intense desire to mate. Rorin deeply disliked those times, since they were extremely distracting and rather useless, at least for him. The only thing to do was either to wait until the hormones subsided, or deal with the problem in a more physical way.

            Rorin shifted uncomfortably, looking at anything but K’avir. He could practically feel his hormones stirring, and he was in no position to solve his dilemma. He would have to wait it out.

            While Rorin’s internal struggle raged, the hunters discussed current events with K’avir. They argued lazily about the state of the empire, mused over the recent sightings of vampires, and talked of local legends, but when the conversation turned to the return of the Dragonborn, K’avir hastily changed the subject. He began to tell a story about a young Redguard named Cyrus. After a while, Rorin became so focused on the tale, he didn’t notice that K’avir had moved until the man’s leg pressed against his own. Fire shot through the place where their skin touched. Rorin jumped and looked up, but K’avir was busy enthralling the hunters with his words and didn’t seem aware that he was touching anyone. Inhaling carefully, Rorin tried to edge away, but his beast blood had gripped him tightly. It sizzled in his veins, urging him to press closer instead. Caught between two strong, opposing desires, he let out a quiet, involuntary whine.

 

            K’avir paused in the middle of describing the infamous nomadic Dune Dwellers from the Alik’r desert and glanced down at Rorin. He noticed the confused flush in Rorin’s cheeks and the stiffness in the man’s pale shoulders, and the corners of his mouth crooked in a small smile. Continuing his story, K’avir shifted very slightly so only their knees touched, but he could still feel the delicious tingle of skin against skin. Rorin let out a nearly audible sigh of relief.

            While he spoke, K’avir was almost painfully aware of the Nord man beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Rorin’s cheeks turn redder and redder as time passed. He tried to focus on his story, but the words still felt a bit odd in his mouth, and the musky scent emanating from Rorin’s skin was incredibly distracting. More than once, he caught himself inhaling deeply and losing track of what he was saying. When Rorin finally climbed out of the pool to clean his gear, the purr in K’avir’s belly turned into an angry growl.

            The sun was beginning to sink behind the mountains as K’avir finished telling his story. The hunters laughed at his last joke, then began to talk amongst themselves. While they argued about whose turn it was to cook dinner, K’avir watched Rorin work.

           Rorin sat near the edge of the pool, polishing his sword. The dying light gave the Nord man’s alabaster skin a red-orange glow and cast dark shadows over his face, making him look as if he was carved from pale rock. K’avir’s eyes slid over Rorin’s lean form as he rubbed a cloth over his weapon. The white mustache twitched.

            Rorin glanced up and K’avir felt his breath hitch in his chest. Pale red eyes met his own. The bottom dropped out of his stomach and he nearly gasped, remembering to smother the noise just in time. He carefully smoothed his expression back to neutral and looked away.

 

            Rorin was deep in thought when he got the feeling that someone was watching him, and when he looked up, he found himself caught in two deep, swirling pools of silver. K’avir’s face was unusually open and almost vulnerable as he stared at Rorin, his lips slightly parted. A moment later, K’avir’s mouth clamped shut. A muscle twitched in his jaw as the startled expression disappeared and his eyes flattened. He turned away. Feeling strangely upset by what he had seen, Rorin returned to cleaning his sword, a crease between his brows.

 

            Just as the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the mountains, K’avir stood and stretched. He clambered out of the pool and walked over to where Rorin sat contemplating his palms. Dropping to the ground, K’avir sighed.

            “Food?” He asked, waving his hands vaguely. Rorin looked at him, then stared back down at his hands.

            “I’m starving,” he said, sounding surprised, “We didn’t even stop for lunch.” K’avir cursed vividly.

            “I completely forgot. Why didn’t you say something?”

            “I got distracted by the hot springs,” Rorin said. It wasn’t entirely a lie, but the hot springs had only been a part of the distraction. His stomach grumbled loudly, and he grinned.

            “Do you have a plan?” He asked. K’avir shrugged.

            “What do you want? I have a lot of food in this spell, and it never goes bad.”

            After a little while, they decided on venison chops. K’avir pulled the food out of his carrying spell, and Rorin was intrigued to see the tendrils of steam rising from the meat. The Redguard handed a large chop to Rorin along with a bottle of ale that he had yanked from thin air, then settled down to eat his own portion.

            “How are you so sure that nothing dangerous is around?” Rorin inquired through a mouthful of venison. K’avir swallowed, then he seemed to turn to stone. He whispered a word, and Rorin saw something ripple away from the place where they sat. For a moment, he saw two points of red light in the distance, then he blinked and the image disappeared. K’avir pointed to where the red dots had been.

            “Rabbits, I think,” he said, then took another bite. “There’s nothing else in this general area, except for the hunters.” Rorin rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully.

            “Alright, well I trust your judgement,” Rorin told him, standing up. “I’m going to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be slow since I am back in school~


	18. Chapter 18

            Rorin was wide awake. He had been tossing and turning for what felt like hours, and now he lay in his furs, staring up into the sky. The Aurora danced above him, casting turquoise and purple light into the darkness. Small noises made him jump and worry that they were being attacked, though K’avir was sitting close by and would’ve warned him of any danger. Finally, he sat up, throwing his furs into the grass.

            “Can’t sleep?” K’avir asked, keeping his voice low. Rorin shook his head, scowling. K’avir turned to look at him, and Rorin could see the Aurora reflected in his eyes.

            “Come,” K’avir murmured, standing and beckoning to him, “Maybe another soak in the hot spring will help you relax.” Rorin highly doubted that, but there wasn’t much else he could do, so he slipped into the water after K’avir. To Rorin’s surprise, the hot water helped soothe his fraying nerves, despite K’avir’s nearness. He settled back, letting himself sink further into the water, and looked up at the sky again. K’avir sighed, and Rorin glanced over at him. The man was staring up at the Aurora, a curious expression playing across his face. Rorin wasn’t quite sure what prompted him to do so, but he asked,

            “What are you thinking about?”

            K’avir smiled slightly, rubbing his jaw, and Rorin noticed that he had washed off his war paint at some point during the night. His face looked odd without it.

            “Well, I’m thinking about Riften. The reason I’m going there is to see Galathil the Face Sculptor in the Ragged Flagon. No, I’m not going to change my face,” he said with a grin, correctly interpreting Rorin’s raised eyebrows, “I want my war paint tattooed on. I hate having to redo it every day and it gets smeared no matter what I do. Unfortunately, needles won’t work on me so I’m going to see if she has some sort of magic for tattooing instead. If she doesn’t, I may have to drag you all the way to the College of Winterhold.” He looked down at Rorin from the corner of his eyes, and something in his expression made Rorin shiver.

            “Drag me?” Rorin muttered, feeling his face turn red. K’avir shifted in the water to face the other man, his expression hidden in shadow, but his eyes still managed to glitter.

            “I do like having you with me, even if you don’t talk much,” he said. Rorin scowled.

            “You never said I was supposed to talk on this trip.” K’avir chuckled, causing ripples to spread over the surface of the pool.

            “You don’t need to talk much, I’ve been enjoying your company even in silence.”

            “I think that the springtime is making you sentimental,” Rorin said, ignoring his desire to scoot closer to the other man.

            “Is it?” K’avir’s eyes deepened and swirled as he leaned forward, reaching out a scarred hand to touch Rorin’s cheek. Rorin froze. K’avir trailed his fingers slowly across Rorin’s cheekbone and down the line of his jaw. Rorin’s heart jumped into his throat as K’avir’s thumb brushed softly over his lower lip, then the man’s eyes flattened and his hand dropped away.

            “Who knows?” He said, then turned and leaned back without another word, looking up into the sky again. After a moment, he began to hum. Even though the blood coursing through his veins felt like liquid fire, K’avir’s humming made Rorin feel sleepy. Moving stiffly, Rorin got out of the pool and dried himself off, then he crawled into his furs, and the gentle humming lulled him to sleep.

           

            A ground-shaking roar broke the morning stillness, shattering Rorin’s peaceful dreams and bringing him instantly to his feet.

            “Wha-” he grunted, reaching for weapons that weren’t there.

            “Quick, over here,” one of the hunter called urgently. Rorin scooped up his clothes, armor, and weapons, then ran over to where the hunters where cowering. When he reached the line of trees, he turned to look for the source of the roar.

            A short distance away, K’avir stood on top of a small series of pools, wearing nothing but his loincloth and a disinterested expression. He gripped a black, spiky bow in one hand. Hovering above him was a huge dragon with red, black, and yellow scales. Its massive wingbeats sent leaves and debris flying into the air around K’avir, but the man didn’t seem at all concerned. He pulled a dark, two-pronged arrow from the quiver in his back, and calmly shot the dragon. It roared and spat fire directly at him, but he didn’t even jump aside. Still shooting steadily, K’avir followed the dragon as it soared around him, roaring and sending occasional blasts of fire in his direction.

            Several minutes later, the dragon seemed to decide that it needed a better plan of attack. It landed in front of K’avir, jaws snapping audibly. The man didn’t even flinch. He drew his scimitars from thin air and jumped onto the dragon’s back, holding tightly as the monster thrashed, trying to throw him into the dirt. When the dragon paused for a breath, K’avir shoved his blades into the back of its head. It let out a screech that made the hair on the back of Rorin’s neck stand on end. The dragon teetered, and K’avir leaped off its back before it hit the ground.

            Fire began to lick up the sides of the dragon’s body. It burst into flames and golden light spilled from the blaze to surround K’avir in a glowing tornado. After a moment, the brilliance faded away, leaving dark spots in Rorin’s vision. He rubbed his eyes and stared.

            K’avir picked his way carefully back toward the camp, and Rorin moved cautiously away from the trees to meet him.

            “Sorry about that,” K’avir said, waving his hand toward the pile of smoking dragon bones. When he moved, Rorin saw something sparkling on the side of his neck.

            “Wait,” Rorin said, voice hoarse. K’avir stopped with his hand halfway to his ear and stared down into Rorin’s face. His pupils were thin slits in the flat silver of his eyes, and glittering silver scales were visible through the peeling skin of his cheekbones and on the sides of his neck. Rorin reached out, frightened yet entranced, to run a gentle fingertip over the raised scales on the man’s cheekbones, feeling the rough edges against his skin.

            A sudden pain made him inhale sharply and yank his hand back. Several barely visible cuts on his fingertip stung and leaked tiny drops of blood. K’avir grasped Rorin’s hand in a swift movement and held the finger up to his eyes, then a soft golden glow surrounded their combined hands. The glow faded and K’avir let go, stepping back. He smoothed his hands over the patches of scales on his face and neck and they slowly disappeared.

            “Be more careful,” K’avir scolded, touching his skin to make sure the scales were gone. Rorin glowered at him.

            “You don’t have to keep healing every single wound I get!” He snapped, more irritated by the unceremonious waking and the heat rising up his arm than by the gesture itself. K’avir regarded Rorin with flat silver eyes and said nothing. Bristling, Rorin swung about and stalked off to put his armor on, muttering to himself the entire time.

           

            When the two men finally reached the Riften gates, most of Rorin’s early morning grumpiness had worn off. The day was pleasantly warm, and after a rousing fight with the bandits who had taken over Fort Greenwall, Rorin’s blood hummed in his veins. He had picked up several small cuts from the bandits’ weapons, but after his outburst earlier that morning, K’avir seemed not to notice. Despite Rorin’s improved mood, neither he nor K’avir had spoken since that morning, and their silence was still vaguely chilly.

            The guards posted outside the city entrance straightened as Rorin and K’avir approached. The man on the right stiffened suddenly and hissed something to the other guard, and the two shifted uneasily away from the gate. K’avir turned his gaze toward the first man and blinked very slowly. He flinched. Wondering what K’avir had done to frighten the guard so badly, Rorin followed the taller man into the city.


	19. Chapter 19

            Brynjolf stood in the marketplace, attempting to sell yet another batch of very expensive, and very fake potions. He didn’t really need the money anymore, now that the guild was back on its feet, but it gave him something to do when there was a lull in guild work.

            “This is the real deal, ladies and gentlemen! Longevity elixir, guaranteed to add years to your life!” Brynjolf said in a carrying voice, waving the bottle at a passerby. “Only twenty-five septims a piece!” All of the permanent residents of Riften knew better than to buy any of his wares, but the occasional tourist was still drawn in. A vacant-faced Breton man wandered up and asked a few questions about the potion, but halfway through answering, Brynjolf stopped short, entirely distracted.

            He recognized the tall Redguard man in plain, light colored clothing who was walking toward his booth, ebony skin glowing faintly in the afternoon sun. The man was closely followed by a shorter figure in light steel armor whose face was hidden by a hood. As they moved closer, Brynjolf saw the Redguard turn slightly and shoot an odd look at his companion before stopping in front of the booth. Brynjolf found himself looking up into cold, hard silver.

            “Brynjolf,” the man said courteously, offering his hand. Brynjolf nodded and returned the handshake.

            “Dragonborn,” he replied, matching the man’s polite tone. “Are you finally looking to join us?”

            K’avir’s mouth twitched and he shook his head.

            “Not this time. I’m merely here to talk to Galathil.” Brynjolf shrugged, keeping his face carefully bland.

            “I’m certainly not going to try to stop you,” he said, attempting to get a better look at the figure behind the Redguard. K’avir noticed where he was looking and smirked.

            “Rorin, this is Brynjolf,” K’avir said, and stepped aside. “Brynjolf, this is Rorin Snow-Born.” The figure stepped forward, removing a gauntlet, and stuck out a hand that was pale as moonlight.

            “Nice to meet you.” The quiet, rough voice intrigued Brynjolf. He leaned forward as he gripped the offered hand, trying to catch a glimpse of the face underneath the hood. The only thing he could see was a trimmed white beard framing a full, stubborn mouth.

            “The pleasure is mine, lad,” he said smoothly. The full mouth curled into a small smile, then K’avir cleared his throat and Brynjolf quickly let go of the pale hand.

            “We’ll see you in the Ragged Flagon,” K’avir murmured, then moved away from the booth. Brynjolf watched the two men make their way toward the Bee and the Barb, thinking carefully. The Redguard seemed confident that he could make it through the Ratway unharmed, and if the stories about the Dragonborn were true, he didn’t doubt it. What would the Guild Master think? He wasn’t sure, but he decided to pack up his booth and get to the cistern quickly so he could find her and discuss the matter.

 

Rorin’s heartbeat began to slow when K’avir pushed open the door to the Bee and the Barb. He stared at nothing in particular while K’avir paid for their room, then dreamily followed the other man up the stairs to the second floor. His booted toe caught under the top stair and he tumbled forward with a loud yelp. For a brief moment, everything was a blur, then K’avir caught his forearm and dragged him to his feet.

            “Are you alright?” K’avir asked, looking vaguely concerned. Rorin steadied himself.

            “Yeah, I’m fine.” K’avir eyed him, then turned down the hallway.

            “He is quite stunning, isn’t he?” K’avir said. Rorin stared in disbelief as the Redguard flashed a quick grin and ushered Rorin into the room.

            Deciding to ignore K’avir’s comment, Rorin sat down on the bed and took off his hood. He inhaled, smelling dust, straw, and wildflowers, then sighed.

            “Where is the Ragged Flagon, anyway?” He inquired. K’avir dropped into a chair and let out a groan.

            “It’s through the Ratway, past all the lowlifes and skeevers,” K’avir said, then paused. “The Ragged Flagon is the main base of the Thieves Guild.” Rorin fingered the hilt of his axe, avoiding K’avir’s eyes.

            “I’d heard rumors about the Thieves Guild recently, but I usually prefer to stay well away from them,” he grunted. “I don’t like thieves very much.”

            “You don’t have to come with me for this,” K’avir said, looking down to inspect his callused fingers. Rorin shrugged.

            “I don’t have much else to do,” he replied, getting stiffly to his feet. “I’ll be right behind you.”

           

            “I’m sorry for yelling at you this morning.” Rorin leaned against the dirty wall and watched as K’avir crouched to pull a pair of lightweight fur gauntlets off their original owner. K’avir paused, then straightened and turned around, meeting Rorin’s gaze steadily.

            “I shouldn’t heal you without your permission,” he said as the gauntlets disappeared into his carrying spell. “I guess it’s an instinct from being aboard my mother’s ship, but it’s not exactly polite. I am sorry. However, if you pass out from an injury, I am not going to wait for you to ask for the healing.” Rorin grinned.

            “I think I’m fine with that.”

 

            A while later they reached a grimy door at the end of a stone hallway. The door opened with a squeak when K’avir pushed, and they stepped through into a large circular room. Low voices, the scrapes of chairs, and the sound of footsteps echoed off a circular pool of water in the center of the room. A wide stone walkway surrounded the pool’s edge, and a wooden porch of sorts had been built above the water across from where Rorin and K’avir stood. Rorin could see a robed figure sitting on the left side of the porch.

            “That’s Galathil, I believe. Some innkeeper told me that she would be here,” K’avir murmured, nodding toward the figure. He started around the right side of the pool and Rorin trailed after him, taking in the details of the space. K’avir paused briefly to nod at an empty niche in the wall, then continued toward the porch. Rorin stared at the space, unnerved. It appeared to be empty, but K’avir seemed to think that someone was there.

            Behind the porch structure was an open area with a bar and two tables. Several people were seated around the tables and at the bar, and Rorin paused, thinking that he recognized one of them. The russet-haired man he was studying turned and winked one bright green eye before continuing his conversation. Rorin felt a blush creep up his neck and he hastened after K’avir.

            K’avir had pulled up a chair and was talking quietly to the robed figure. When Rorin approached, K’avir glanced up.

            “Feel free to have a drink or something,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “This will probably take a while.” Rorin shrugged and wandered back over to the bar. A huge, thick-fingered hand grabbed his upper arm, stopping him mid-stride. He looked up into a heavy face with small, ice blue eyes and a wide nose. The man’s coarse hair was dirty blond, and the lower half of his face was framed by thick blond mutton chops. A scabbed-over cut and a spreading purple bruise suggested that someone had recently split his lip. His bushy eyebrows were pulled down in a menacing scowl.

            “Vekel don’t like strangers snoopin’ around th’ Flagon,” he growled. Rorin resisted the urge to growl in return, instead lifting his upper lip to display a long, sharp canine tooth.

            “I’m here with the Dragonborn,” Rorin snapped, jerking his head toward K’avir, “And we’re not snooping. Let go.” The man moved to tighten his hold, but a smooth, lilting voice made him pause.

            “Leave the lad be, Dirge. I spoke to him earlier today and he’s telling the truth. At least, I think he is.” Rorin jerked out of Dirge’s hold and glared at Brynjolf.

            “Why would I lie? K’avir is over there-” he pointed, “And I just want a drink.”

            “Stay outta trouble, or there’s gonna be trouble,” Dirge grunted. Rorin whipped around and bared his pointed teeth at the man in a snarl.

            “I swear, by my honor as a Companion, that I am not here to cause trouble,” he hissed. “Unless trouble is what you’re looking for?”

            A gentle hand gripped his shoulder. “No, lad, we have plenty of trouble as is,” Brynjolf said, steering Rorin back toward the bar. “Come on, have a drink, my treat.”

            Dirge walked away as Rorin sat down on a bar stool next to Brynjolf.

            “Mead?” Brynjolf asked, watching Rorin with bright green eyes.

            “Yes please.”

            The man behind the counter slid a bottle of mead toward Rorin with a practiced motion. Rorin nodded his thanks, popped the cork, and took a long drink.

            “So lad, what brings you here?” Brynjolf leaned on the counter, scruffy chin resting in his palm as he surveyed Rorin.

            “The Dragonborn brought me along,” Rorin said. The crooked curve of Brynjolf’s smile was very distracting. Rorin cleared his throat nervously and took another drink. Brynjolf craned around to peer in K’avir’s direction.

            “Why is he here? He has already declined the offer to join us twice, so he’s not here for that.” Rorin saw the bright green eyes harden. “He is only allowed to stay down here on the Guild Master’s orders, but she seems to think that he could stay even if we didn’t want him to.” Rorin shrugged and said,

            “He’s here for Galathil. I think that may be the only reason why we came all this way.” Brynjolf raised his eyebrows.

            “He told me that he isn’t going to change anything structural. If you want the full story, you’ll have to ask him.” Rorin’s twisted around to get a look at what was happening on the porch. Galathil was holding her hands just above the skin of K’avir’s cheeks, and a shimmering light surrounded her thin fingers. K’avir’s silver eyes were wide and unblinking, and Rorin was startled to see tears streaming down his face. He didn’t seem to notice Rorin staring at him, and didn’t even flinch when a pale woman threw a tankard at a badly shaven man and it sailed over his head, missing him by a finger’s breadth. Brynjolf chuckled, and the sound sent a warm tingle down Rorin’s spine despite his preoccupation. Rorin turned back to him, feeling uneasy.

            “Delvin must’ve overstepped his boundaries again,” Brynjolf said. “You’d think he would’ve gotten the message by now.”

            “Hm?” Rorin was still thinking about K’avir and hadn’t heard the comment. Brynjolf smiled.

            “Oh, just some long-running guild drama. Are you alright, lad?” He asked abruptly, causing Rorin to jump and spill a bit of his mead on the counter. Wiping absently at the spilled drink, Rorin shook himself and met Brynjolf’s curious gaze.

            “I’m fine. Hold on a moment, I’ll be right back.” He pushed away from the counter and walked tentatively over to where K’avir sat, tears still pouring from his silver eyes.

            “Is everything okay?” Rorin inquired softly.

            “Oh, everything is going very nicely.” Galathil’s voice was crisp with an arrogant edge. “I haven’t done this very many times but I have heard that it’s extremely painful. I’m surprised he hasn’t made any noise yet.”

            Gentle fingers grasped Rorin’s hand and squeezed reassuringly, then let go.

            “He will be fine. Now shoo, you’re disrupting my concentration.” Rorin frowned and went back to the bar, dropping down on his stool.

            “What’s happening over there?” Brynjolf spun a septim idly on the counter. Rorin turned to look at him, and took a moment to admire the rugged line of the man’s jaw and the way lock of russet hair fell over one of his emerald eyes. Brushing the hair back behind his ear, Brynjolf cocked an eyebrow. Rorin shrugged.

            “I have no idea,” he confessed. “I can’t tell what she’s doing, but I think it’s causing K’avir some pain.”

            They sat in silence for a little while, then Brynjolf turned to Rorin once more and looked him up and down.

            “Who are you, exactly?” The expression on Brynjolf’s face was innocently curious. “Are you really one of the Companions? Where are you from? Pardon my bluntness, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with skin as pale as yours.” Rorin laughed at the barrage of questions and waved a hand.

            “What, is this an interrogation? I already told you that I’m only here to accompany the Dragonborn. I’m not here to snoop, spy, or anything.” Brynjolf shook his head, a twinkle in his mischievous green eyes.

            “You wound me,” he said, trying his best to look hurt. “I’m merely curious by nature, though I suppose it can come in handy in my line of work” Rorin took a drink of mead to hide his grin.

            “I’ll answer your questions, but only if you answer some of mine,” he said after thinking carefully, “And beware, I can smell lies.” Brynjolf’s mouth crooked in a smile.

            “Aye, lad. We have a deal.”

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but the story continues. I have no idea when I'll get around to writing again, but I haven't given up yet. Anyway, enjoy!

            Something tapped the back of Rorin’s head and he turned, breaking off his conversation with Brynjolf.

            “‘M done,” K’avir muttered. He spoke gingerly, as if the skin around the white line running over his bottom lip was still tender. “But we can stay as long as you want.”

            “K’avir?” A husky voice sounded from behind the Redguard, and he swung around to meet the speaker. A short, slender Breton man in dark robes stood there, pitch black eyes sparkling from inside the eye holes of the white skull tattooed onto his face. K’avir grinned and began to sign so quickly that Rorin couldn’t read what he was saying. The Breton responded in the same rapid fashion, and the two moved to a pair of chairs on the porch.

            “I guess they know each other,” Rorin commented dryly. Brynjolf chuckled and took a long drink from his tankard.

            “Athano comes down here every once in a while. He and the Guild Master are friends. I think they worked for the Dark Brotherhood at the same time.”

            “Is the Dark Brotherhood still active in Skyrim?” Rorin asked. “I haven’t heard anything about them in a while.” Brynjolf frowned.

            “Aye, they’re still around. Didn’t you hear about the Emperor? That happened months ago.”

            “Was that the Dark Brotherhood’s doing? Whoever I heard the news from must’ve neglected to mention that particular detail.”

            Brynjolf nodded.

            “I think they tried recruiting the Dragonborn at one point, but I don’t think he was interested.”

            Rorin thought about this for a moment before responding.

            “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” he admitted. “K’avir doesn’t seem like he would enjoy that type of work very much. He’s not one for stealth jobs. Not that he isn’t capable,” Rorin said quickly, seeing Brynjolf’s expression, “He just seems to prefer to wade into the thick of things without disguising himself or sneaking in any way.”

            “Hm. Well, it seems appropriate that the Dragonborn and the Thane of Riften know each other,” Brynjolf said.

            “Thane?” Brynjolf laughed at Rorin’s surprised tone.

            “That’s right. Athano and his husband live right here in Riften.”

            “What are you two lovely boys talking about?” A silky voice purred in Rorin’s ear. He jumped.

            “Ah, Rorin, this is our Guild Master, Rillia. Rillia, this is Rorin Snow-Born.”

            “Nice to meet you,” the woman said, giving Rorin’s shoulder a firm pat. “Did I hear you mention the Thane? Is he here?”

            “Don’t pretend you didn’t see him come in,” Brynjolf said with amusement.

            “Oh shush,” Rillia said, smacking him playfully on the side of the head. Rorin saw that the skin of her bare hand was a deep, dusky gray. He turned and met a pair of slanted, blood red eyes, and Rillia smiled. She brushed choppy black hair out of her face and tucked it behind her pointed, heavily pierced ears.

            “Where did you get that armor?” Rorin asked. He thought he recognized the faint scent that hung around the metal. Rillia looked down at her spiky black armor and rubbed a spot of dirt off the breastplate.

            “I made it,” she told him.

            “That’s our Guild Master,” Brynjolf said with pride. “She’s a woman of many talents.”

            “Stop it, you’ll make me blush.” Rillia ran her fingers briskly through Brynjolf’s hair and seemed to pull a septim from behind his ear.

            “When was the last time you washed?” She asked with a cheeky smile, then sauntered over to join K’avir and Athano’s silent conversation. Rorin saw Brynjolf’s eyes follow the Dunmer woman until she sat down.

            “I washed this morning,” the man muttered. “She’s just trying to embarrass me.”

 

            Several minutes later, K’avir stood and wandered back over to Rorin.

            “I’m ready to go whenever,” Rorin told him, getting to his feet.

            K’avir nodded, stretched, and began to walk back to the Ratway entrance.

            “Hold on a moment.” Brynjolf pushed away from the counter and stood as well. “I trust you both enough at this point. You can come this way.” He led Rorin and K’avir into a hallway behind the bar, and stopped at what looked like an old wooden dresser. Pulling open the door, he fiddled with something Rorin couldn’t see and the false back popped open.

            “Come on,” Brynjolf ducked through and Rorin followed, then K’avir appeared a moment later. They walked down a short hallway into a second circular room, this one with a four-way bridge built above the central pool as well as a walkway around the outside edge of the water.

            “This is the cistern,” Brynjolf told them. “I’m trusting you both not to speak of this to anyone outside the guild.” Rorin and K’avir nodded solemnly.

            When they reached the ladder leading outside, Brynjolf shook K’avir’s hand, and stood by as the Redguard ascended out of sight. He paused for a moment, then took Rorin’s hand in his own.

            “I enjoyed talking to you today. I hope I’ll see you again. If you ever need anything ‘borrowed’, just let me know.” He winked, and lifted Rorin’s hand to his lips. Rorin felt a spike of heat pierce his stomach.

            “I, uh, sure. I had fun talking to you too.” He made to grasp the ladder, then paused. “If you ever need hired muscle, send word to the Companions in Whiterun,” he said. “We could always use the work.”

            “I’ll do just that,” Brynjolf replied with a charming smile.

 

            The Bee and the Barb was warm and dimly lit when Rorin and K’avir entered the northern door. Yawning profusely, Rorin followed K’avir up the stairs, along the hallway, and into their room. It was only when the door swung shut behind him that Rorin began to understand the situation. He gulped, feeling a tingling heat spreading over his cheeks.

            K’avir stood in the middle of the tiny room, running his fingers carefully over the white lines on his face. He mumbled something unintelligible and began to take off his clothes. Rorin backed up against the door and watched the silvery tattoo on K’avir’s back stir.

            “Uh,” he mumbled, suddenly very worried, “Who’s uh, who’s sleeping where? I’m fine sleeping on the floor.”

            K’avir faced him, and Rorin’s eyes were once again drawn to the golden ring glittering in the man’s right nipple. Biting the inside of his cheek, he forced himself to look into K’avir’s face instead.

            _‘I don’t particularly care,’_ K’avir signed. _‘I’m tired, and my skin hurts. I think we can both fit on the bed.’_

            Rorin eyed the small mattress dubiously, but K’avir had already finished undressing and climbed onto the bed. There was just barely enough room next to the Redguard for another person to lie down without falling off. As much as Rorin wanted to sleep on the floor and avoid the physical contact, the bed looked quite comfortable, and he was stiff from the day’s activities. Thinking that he might already be regretting his decision, he undid his armor and cautiously lay down next to K’avir. A gentle snore told him that the man had already fallen asleep. Sighing with relief, Rorin rolled carefully onto his side and closed his eyes.

            A pair of muscled, ebony arms suddenly snaked around his waist and pulled him tightly against something firm and warm. Rorin gasped as heat flared throughout his entire body, then burned down his throat and into his stomach. One of the dark, long-fingered hands had somehow slipped beneath the hem of his shirt and was resting softly against the skin of his lower belly. Rorin could barely breathe.

            “K-K’avir?” He managed to choke. Another gentle snore answered his question. K’avir was still asleep. Beginning to panic, he wriggled slightly, trying to free himself, but K’avir’s grip was strong as steel. After a little while he stopped moving and lay still, panic and unbidden heat making his head spin.

            Long minutes passed. Rorin focused on remembering to breathe while attempting to unscramble his thoughts. He couldn’t ever recall a time when he’d been so full of confusing and conflicting emotions. He put his face in his hands and moaned quietly. K’avir often made him nervous, but he was irresistibly and undeniably attracted to the man, both physically and mentally.

            A burning, aching heat was building in his core. It collected in the bottom of his stomach, pooling and swirling as it began to flood his mind. K’avir tightened his grip, drawing Rorin closer, and nuzzled his face into the back of Rorin’s neck. Goosebumps rippled down Rorin’s arms as K’avir’s lips brushed the sensitive skin. The Redguard murmured something, then almost instantly, Rorin felt his muscles relax. A subtle warmth spread from the place where K’avir’s lips had touched, soothing his frayed nerves and settling the raging desire in his stomach. He sighed deeply and let K’avir pull him even closer, until he was molded against the other man’s body. The gentle warmth lulled him into a peaceful sleep.

 

            When Rorin woke the next morning, he was alone in the bed. He stretched, enjoying the delicious pull of every sore muscle in his body, then sighed. It felt as if liquid sunlight was running through his veins, warming him from the inside out. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so well.

            Rolling over, he wondered if he could go back to sleep, then the events of the previous night flashed into his mind and he sat up. K’avir hadn’t left a note, and Rorin had no idea where he had gone or how he had gotten out of the bed, so he decided to get up and go downstairs. He hummed while he tugged his boots on, then pulled his hair back into a haphazard bun. As he was standing up, a soft noise from the side of the room made him jump and spin around. His jaw dropped.

            K’avir slid into the room through the wall, apparently completely unconcerned that he had just moved from the open air outside through solid wood as if it didn’t exist. He ran a hand over his face and sighed heavily, then turned to see Rorin staring at him as if he were a ghost.

            “Whoops,” he muttered. Rorin was speechless for another moment, then he let out a bark of laughter and sat back down on the bed.

            “I don’t even think I’m going to ask,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. He heard the floorboards squeak as K’avir walked over to him and sat down on the bed.

            “I woke up some time after midnight and couldn’t fall asleep again, so I figured I would go outside and look at the stars,” K’avir explained, rubbing his nose in a distracted manner. “The best place to see them is on the rooftops, so that’s where I went. I must have fallen asleep out there because I didn’t realize what time it was until I heard Brynjolf yelling about his latest concoction.”

            “It’s about mid-morning, then?” Rorin inquired, still staring at the ceiling. He felt so rested from the night before that even the sight of K’avir walking through a solid wall couldn’t dampen his mood for long. He smiled up at K’avir.

 

            K’avir wasn’t going to tell Rorin that the main reason he couldn’t fall asleep again was lying on the bed next to him, smiling cheekily. He had woken up with an armful of warm, tantalizingly musky, pale-skinned man, and his body had reacted instantly. Moving quickly but carefully, he had extricated himself from the bed before he had time to think and stood, staring down at Rorin’s sleeping face. The desire had gnawed his stomach and clawed its way into the back of his mouth, making it hard for him to breathe. The building had creaked around him. For agonizing moments, he had grappled with his emotions. Finally, unable to fully control himself, he had bent down and pressed his lips to the pale skin of Rorin’s cheek, whispering a few words for peace and rest. Backing up, he had turned, then moved effortlessly through the wall into the open air outside. The breeze had been cool, playing over his heated face. Wandering out over the rooftops, he had found a place out of sight of any late-night wanderers and sat down on thin air. A little while later, a soft touch on his shoulder had startled him out of his daze. Athano had smiled warmly and taken a seat on his right. A gentle clatter to his left had told him that Rillia had come and sat down as well. The three had stayed there, staring silently into the sky, until the first rays of sun had pierced the morning fog. The other two had gotten to their feet and wandered off, but K’avir had stayed until the sun had fully risen, and Brynjolf’s voice had brought him to his senses.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has been so long... I lost my creative wind for this story and then picked it up again a few nights ago... updates will be very slow, but keep your eyes open! I hope you enjoy :)

K’avir shook his head to clear his thoughts and smiled wryly.

“It’s about mid-morning, yes,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. He coughed and switched to signing. _‘Did you sleep well? You look more rested than before.’_ He paused, thinking for a moment. _‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that before.’_  Rorin shrugged, suddenly remembering the previous night. He could feel color rising in his face as he met K’avir’s level gaze. For a moment, the air between them became sharp and electric, then Rorin inhaled sharply and broke the eye contact.

 “The beast blood usually keeps me from sleeping well,” he said, standing and stretching. “It makes me restless, especially if I’m traveling.” K’avir rose from his seat on the bed and pulled a sweetroll from his carrying spell, offering it to Rorin.   
            _‘I’m glad you got to sleep well,’_ he signed as Rorin accepted the pastry. Rorin shrugged again and took another bite.  
            “So what now?” Rorin said, speaking thickly through sugar and bread. K’avir touched his nose, wincing slightly.  
            _‘I was thinking that I’ve barely been to Markarth, and I think I should probably go see if there’s anything that I need to do there,’_ he signed. Rorin choked a little and coughed.  
            “All the way to Markarth?” He asked, eyes watering. K’avir turned and gazed at him, silver eyes sparkling like coins.   
            _‘I can bring you back to Whiterun if you’d like.’_ K’avir’s expression was carefully empty as he signed. Rorin felt a lump rise in his throat, and he coughed again, feeling his face turn red.

“I, uh, I never…” he stammered. K’avir slipped a callused finger under his chin and turned his face upward.   
            “I’ve enjoyed your company so far,” K’avir murmured, his voice deep and raspy. “I hope you come with me.”  
            Rorin gaped at him, then nodded. K’avir’s fingers caressed the line of his jaw, then pulled back.   
            _‘Should we leave today? Or should we take a day to rest?’_ he signed.   
            “Let’s go,” Rorin responded cheerfully, forgetting his embarrassment. “I feel better than I have in weeks.”   


* * *

  
            Rorin flopped down onto the fur-covered stone bed with a sigh.   
            “You didn’t mention that you owned a house in the city,” he accused, sitting up to begin the process of removing his armor. K’avir leaned against the stone doorway, his eyes following Rorin’s movements.   
            “You didn’t ask,” he said. Rorin shot him a playful glare and peeled his arm guards away from his skin.   
            “Is there a way for me to get a bath here?” he asked instead, wrinkling his nose. K’avir snorted and whistled a short tune. Heavy footsteps moved toward their room and a huge man stomped into view. His left eye was white and blind, the other dark and set deep in a broad, placid face framed by blond hair.  
            “What can I do for you, my Thane?” he asked in a deep, rumbly voice. K’avir smiled affectionately at the big man and began to sign, waving his hands in an energetic way. After a month and a half of travelling with the strange man, Rorin was used to his habit of switching abruptly between speech and sign language.   
            “I’ll be gone for a few days,” K’avir said, turning to look at Rorin, his sliver eyes glittering in the lamp light. “I have business to attend to. You should sleep here in my room, since the only other bed is Argis’.” He paused, then moved forward to take one of Rorin’s pale, scarred hands. “Please be careful here. It’s not safe right now. I do trust your ability to defend yourself,” he said quickly, noticing Rorin’s expression, “but the forsworn are becoming bolder every day, and I’d rather you didn’t have a run-in with them.” He lifted Rorin’s fingers to kiss them gently, then let go. “I’ll be back before you can miss me.” Rorin blushed and clasped his hands together.   
            “Travel well,” he said softly as K’avir’s footsteps retreated from the room. When he looked up, the other man was gone. His housecarl still stood in the doorway, eyeing Rorin with curiosity in his dark eye.  
            “Bathroom is this way,” he grunted, gesturing vaguely. “If you’ll follow me…”

 

            Squeaky clean and happily full, Rorin lay on K’avir’s bed, furs draped over his legs and stomach. While the late spring air outside was quite warm, the stone walls of Vlindrel hall kept the rooms cool. He stared up at the ceiling, distractedly running his fingers over the furs.

            It had been a month and a half since he and K’avir left Riften. They had traveled across Skyrim toward Markarth, stopping at the towns and cities they encountered on their way. The nights were warm enough that they mostly slept out in the open, beneath the stars. Sometimes they ran together as wolves when they had long stretches of wilderness between towns. The spring hormones had tortured Rorin until he stopped fighting against them, and just let the desires ebb and flow through his veins. Since their last night in Riften, K’avir had done nothing but touch him occasionally, in an almost casual way that made Rorin want to jump out of his skin. If he didn’t find a way to do something about it, he was going to be extremely frustrated all spring.

            “What am I going to do?” he murmured. There was no response.


End file.
